Shallow Means, Deep Ends
by Elliott Lawrence
Summary: Don Juan Triumphant is finished and now I want to live like everybody else...I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. People will not even turn round in the streets... The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux
1. Piecing Together the Broken Shards

It was brilliant.

Oh, it was a horrible mockery of my struggles, of the pain and suffering I'd endured for almost a lifetime to know that the solution was this simple. I would have laughed if I didn't feel so numb; I would have felt relieved if there were any reason left to feel, anything left to do, any chance remaining for a happy ending.

No, this was more like a glimpse of what I could have had, what God had denied me; a sensation similar to the one faced by a dreamer who awakes in the cold of reality. God knows I had felt that terrible jolt myself too many times…

But despite its lack of meaning, now that the story had reached its close, the image in front of me was indeed real.

I stared at my reflection (was it really mine?) with dead eyes, surveying the landscape of my face. I was, undeniably, attractive. There was the irony again, daring me to laugh or cry or react in any way. Instead I just stared, admiring my own artistic skill with nonchalant arrogance.

It was so realistic, so well sculpted, I could have kicked myself for not finishing it sooner. Had I not been so pessimistic when it came to my fate with women, had I not decided long ago to shun all of mankind, I would have finished it before Christine even met me. Still, it made my stomach turn, knowing it would have made all the difference.

I had the same feeling I often did when recalling the name "Christine"- sickening anger combined with extreme tenderness and sorrow. I didn't connect the name to a face or a girl anymore- only with a period of my life, a sort of turning point.

When she left me, I had at first thought it to be the ending of everything: final evidence that my existence on this earth was never meant to be anything but hell. My self-loathing increased tenfold when I recalled what I put her through, when I pictured her fearful blue eyes brimming with tears and her bloody, bruised forehead which she had bashed against the stone walls of my home, preferring to be unconscious rather than face me.

After she and that wretched boy fled, I sat in the cold, damp cellars of the Opera House with a knife, not eating and barely moving for days, and, like most of my life, not being able to work up the courage to kill myself.

I'm unsure of how long it was before I was found. When I heard the footsteps I didn't even bother to look up. I heard voices, familiar voices, but I didn't care. It wasn't until Nadir pulled me to my feet and Madame Giry gasped in horror that I even bothered to look at the faces of the people who had pulled me from my decaying trance.

The knife fell to the floor with a clatter. My legs were weak from lack of blood from sitting so long on a stone floor. I could imagine how repulsive and pathetic I must have looked then to what I suppose you could call my two only friends.

The two of them got their arms under my thin shoulders and managed to half-drag, half-coax me along the tunnels that led back aboveground. I spent the following weeks in Nadir's apartment, lying on a bed in a sort of coma, crying and whimpering like a dog as my two companions discussed what to do with me.

It was almost a relief to be treated as a child- I'd been denied that when of the rightful age. Both decided they could not turn me in for my crimes, which was still, in my opinion, extremely trusting and stupid. Yet I couldn't help but be grateful, even if gratitude was an emotion I despised.

Nadir decided it was best to declare me dead. That way, the Paris police would not be on my tail and they could buy time to decide what to do with their emotionally wrecked fugitive.

Eventually, after weeks of lying around, dead like the corpse I'd always felt I was, Madame Giry couldn't take it anymore and told me to stand up. "Erik," she said, "Despite what you have been told, despite what lies you've been fed, you are a man. I want you to start acting like one, and you can start by going into the washroom and cleaning up." This greatly aggravated and insulted me, but still got me to grudgingly begin to piece the shards of my broken life back together.

As I stood over the basin, muttering curses at the old woman, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was old and cracked- it pained me to know that two of the most decent human beings I had encountered lived in such poverty, greatly due to my own doing.

Strangely, the crack in the glass cut down the middle of my face and curved over my nose. The side of glass to the right of the crack was completely destroyed, distorting the reflection of my defect to the point where it was barely visible. All I could make out of my face was the small part that was untouched by the distortion: a sunken, starved- but nonetheless normal- human cheek bone, a thin pink corner of my lips, and an emerald green eye. I was reminded of the night I had told Christine about my plans for us; about my final mask…

I had created so many masks: white leather coverings for dignity, black velvet disguises for seduction, intricate skulls to strike fear into my enemies. But never, until I met Christine, did the idea of recreating the human face cross my mind.

Unfortunately, it was her face that I was focused on. I built a mannequin that resembled her identically, my skill and obsession shocking even myself. It wasn't until one day when I was admiring it and its wedding veil that the idea hit me: I could build myself a face! I laughed, hardly believing the idea had never occurred to me before.

My mind exploded with dreams of walks in the park with Christine, hand in hand, appearing like everyone else. I wouldn't even be afraid anymore; I could live an actual life, I could take her places, we wouldn't have to hide in a cellar. I would be free. I could even be- dare I think it- attractive.

I knew I could create it perfectly: a permanent mask so real that it would match up with the almost half-side of my face that was tolerable. The excitement built up; I wanted to run and tell her. Unfortunately, by the time I got the chance, she was already terrified of my murderous temper and barely heard me.

The idea of the final mask began to resurface again as I stood before that mirror. It would be the perfect disguise- I could go outside again, free to go where I pleased. I did love the French countryside- I hadn't seen anything but cellars, the opera house, and dark Parisian streets in years. Even before I had become "the Phantom," I'd seen little of the world during the day outside of the time I spent in Persia.

I wasn't optimistic enough to believe that I could begin to live a normal life at my age; I was far too scarred internally, far too eccentric and nervous. But perhaps I could at least be free to do as I pleased and no longer feel caged within my appearance.

This mask became my newest obsession. I didn't tell Nadir or Madame Giry about it; I simply closed myself away as I often did, working night and day to complete it, scarcely eating or sleeping.

I ordered supplies and materials through my two friends, and they allowed me my privacy. I took measurements of my head. I boiled a special plaster and rubber concoction I'd invented, shaping it and carving it the way I had with Christine's model. The result was so similar to flesh that it was almost sickening to go at with knives.

I painted and perfected it, carefully thinning the face so that it was flexible, yet thick enough to not cling to the ugly ridges of my deformities. After less than a month, it was finished.

I then did what I was most nervous about. I made sure the eyehole was carefully aligned with my own eye and poured some more of that horrible hot flesh mixture inside the mask. I took a breath and quickly pressed the boiling creation to my face before I could stop to think about what I was doing.

My mind was screaming. Every blood vessel inside me was searing. I fell to the ground, blinded by hot white pain. My mind landed on my victims in Persia, the ones I had sent to torture chambers to fry while under the influence of hard drugs of the khanum. Perhaps my suffering was some twisted form of karma.

I stumbled into the bathroom and ran cold water over my face. I could smell melting flesh, steam rising from the basin. I was violently sick off to the side- surprising, considering how little I had been eating. I kept my head submerged in the cold water, taking breaths now and then to steady myself.

Eventually I passed out on the floor. When I awoke, it was dark, and my face felt completely numb. The lack of pain was such a relief that I didn't care what the numbness meant. I stood and looked in the mirror, then remembered it was broken. I walked into my sleeping chamber, where there was a full-length mirror across from the dresser…

It was brilliant.

I looked at myself, felt the power radiating around me… this was what I was meant to be. My thick dark hair fell into my face only slightly. The black robe I had fallen asleep in hung off me in a tired sort of way. Looking in the mirror, I could hardly tell where the mask ended and where my skin began. I was barely recognizable.

My face was an actual human face. I ran a slender finger over my false nose and across my forever numb cheek and forehead. Still, the shape was beautiful. I had always had a nice bone structure despite my abhorrent appearance, and I could see this now. I let myself feel narcissism; I let myself wallow in it, making up for the years of self-loathing. This was the man I felt like when in the mask. Seductive, powerful, in control.

But no one could take it away this time.


	2. Erik Is Dead

A knock at the door tore me away from my arrogant reverie. Madame Giry opened the door slowly, bringing tea. I whirled around to face her, forgetting my new face for a split second. I remembered when she gasped and almost dropped the saucer. I grinned despite myself.

She stared. "Erik, how..!"

I took a step closer and said, matter-of-factly, "Ah, Madame, I've been craving a second opinion. Do you feel this look suits me? I've been thinking on it for quite some time now, and I daresay it's complimentary… do you agree?"

It was the first time I could remember in a long time that my sarcasm had a softness to it.

I could hardly believe what happened next. I'd always known the woman had cared for me while I was living in the opera house, and one might even consider us close- she had taken care of me and protected me far more than my true mother ever had, even when I was clearly dangerous. But still, I never expected her to cry- or worse- throw her arms around me.

I stiffened, feeling truly awkward and unsure of how to react to such a gesture.

"Madame, please…" It was no use; the woman was hysterical. Eventually I felt myself relax and I began to try to comfort her gingerly.

Nadir walked in on this, and when he saw my face, he merely nodded and smiled.

"I wondered if this was what you were up to…"

He then grinned and embraced me as well as Madame Giry sobbed quietly and wiped away her tears. Nadir spoke into my ear:

"You look spectacular, my friend. I hope you can do great things in this world now that you are free."

When he let me go, I saw that he, too, was close to crying. I suddenly felt guilty and backed away.

"I'm not free, Nadir… I'm not…"

My friend sighed. "But Erik, you i are /i … my God, look at you… A man with half your incredible intellect and talent and even a decent face would be seducing all the women of Paris. But your art is never only satisfactory, is it? My God, this face you've created, this new persona… Erik, you could take over the world! Think of the good you can do, now that the world may listen."

I shook my head. "No, no, it's stupid to believe that a face changes everything. For too long it's been my excuse for the terrible existence I've created for myself- as well as others. My friends… How can I ever repay you?"

The words came out hollow and cold sounding, not at all as I had intended. But Mme. Giry touched my hand gently. I shivered.

"You look very handsome, my dear…but I want you to know, this changes nothing. You have always been a good man inside, no matter how you've looked."

I felt the guilt again; this was way too much attention, far too much praise that I didn't deserve.

"Let us go to sleep now,'' I said quickly, "And tomorrow morning I shall look into finding us a better residence- all the fortune I have is yours now, my friends. We will talk tomorrow over breakfast. I need rest."

Giry nodded and took my hand. "And we will perhaps talk about Christine, my dear."

I felt my throat tighten as the old woman left. Nadir paused at the door. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes.

"Are you badly burned?" he inquired in a low voice.

I didn't say anything at first. Finally, I replied, "I'm fine, Daroga."

He sighed. "It is sad that we live in such a world where one must go to such… extreme measures."

He gave me a grim smile, and I returned it. He then exited, leaving me to my chamber.

I pulled off my robe and climbed carefully onto the old mattress that served as my bed. As I stared out the window at the moon rising, I realized that I had never been embraced, aside from that brief moment with Christine. The thought made me feel strange and almost guilty once more, but I do believe that I fell asleep feeling a sort of brand new comfort, a foreign, yet quite relaxing sensation. At least I wasn't alone.

I awoke in sunlight, bright and yellow in my eyes. I squinted and rose to shut the blinds, catching sight of myself in the mirror again. I sighed and flattened my hair, glancing at the abandoned mask on my dresser. It was hard not to feel vulnerable without it.

I dressed myself in a white dress shirt, black pants, and a brown overcoat, then took one last look in the mirror. I put my black fedora under my arm, turned on my heel and made my way into the living quarters of the apartment.

Nadir and Giry were already awake and sipping tea at the kitchen table. Nadir had the newspaper open and was reading it, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. He had dark circles under his eyes and several new lines creased his dark face.

He looked up as I entered, giving me the same grim smile he had the night before. Giry's smile was much softer.

"Sit down, dear, let me have a look at you." I did as I was told, and the older woman examined my face with keen eyes. She told me to open my mouth, touching the resilient material that stretched over my jaw.

"This is incredible, Monsieur Khan…" she said to the Daroga, "you can hardly tell, have a look at this…"

I did not like to be closely examined, so I drew away swiftly.

"That's enough of that," I whispered dangerously. "Daroga, let me see the newspaper when you are finished."

Nadir nodded and handed the paper across the table. Giry read over my shoulder.

"Why, it says something about you…"

Indeed it did. Nadir chuckled to himself. "I believe that is my doing. Not exactly doing my duty as an officer, I will admit, but there was little else I could do."

I saw a glimmer of shame in his dark eyes, but it disappeared quickly. I looked down at the newspaper again. b Erik is Dead /b .

Nadir looked at me somberly.

"The paper lies, in a sense. The Phantom of the Opera is indeed dead. But perhaps now, Erik can begin to live."

I shrugged. I didn't appreciate Nadir and his talks of morality, especially this early in the morning. He continued nonetheless.

"I once told you, Erik, that if you ever killed again, I would have to turn you in."

I sighed. "Nadir, I-"

"Let me finish. I have, of course, gone back on my word. But let me make this clear: one toe out of line, and I swear to you, your faithful box-keeper and I will have you locked away for good."

I fidgeted uncomfortably. Madame Giry sighed.

"Enough of this. Erik, I'm sure you are prepared to turn over a new leaf."

She paused, as if suddenly recalling something unpleasant.

"Also, there is one other thing I must say. I do not want you looking for them, Erik."

There was no need for me to ask to whom she was referring. I scoffed.

"Why, Madame, do you really think I would do something as idiotic as that? You have always felt I was a genius, so I've heard. Why would I do such a thing? I'm not foolish."

Giry raised an eyebrow. "Love makes fools of even the most brilliant men. I would think you would know this, of all people."

I set the newspaper down and stood. "I am very busy; I have to go work on a few-"

"Erik, sit for God's sake," Nadir said, putting a hand on my arm.

I shook my head and backed away. I didn't deserve this hospitality. "I'll leave a check for you on the bed. Use it to buy yourselves a decent home. I will keep in touch."

I strode into my room, packed up my few remaining belongings recovered from the mob, and left as quickly as possible. My friends knew better than to try to stop me.


	3. In Which Erik's Impulsiveness is Evident

The bright light of the Parisian streets was blinding and obnoxious. It was the strangest sensation I'd had in all my life and I wanted to get out of it as soon as I could. I frantically looked for an apartment to rent.

Had I known what I was getting myself into, I never would have chosen the building I did. I was drawn to the extravagant edifice because I had a sort of pet peeve about poor architectural design when it came to where I lived. Before entering, I stood outside for a while, examining the structure. I was pleased with it.

The cool shade of the indoors was a refreshing contrast to the intense sunlight. I sighed audibly, relieved. Two young women giggled. They were leaning against one of the marble pillars that stood on either side of a large desk where a fat, balding man was seated.

I tensed up as I often did when I felt I was being ridiculed. It didn't occur to me until the braver of the two came up to me that their interest in me was anything but amused repulsion.

The girl was wearing a light pink dress that obviously had cost someone quite a bit of money. She was short and curvy, with blond hair and an attractive, arrogant face that suggested aristocracy. She approached me with little to no hesitation, and, to my disbelief, flirted openly.

"My sister Claire and I were watching you outside. What on Earth were you looking for?"

The sister blushed across the room and giggled again. I felt very, very strange and unsure of how to react. An unflawed face made this much of a difference in my appearance?

I glared down at the girl. "It's none of your business what I was looking for, Mademoiselle, and I suggest you quit bouncing and giggling before I am sick."

My abominable, sarcastic social skills only seemed to fuel her.

"You seem stressed… and alone. Why is a man like you alone? You're very cute, in a dark, artsy sort of way. How old are you?"

I sighed loudly, growing tired of this. "Twice your age, at least."

Even this didn't seem to put an end to the questioning.

"That's okay; I only wanted to talk for a bit… and you know, age is only a number…"

I'd had enough of these innuendos. "I dare say I'd be far too dark and… artsy… for your taste. I am very busy, if you'll excuse me."

I stepped past the overpriced pink dress and its contents and strode over to the desk at last.

"Excuse me; I was wondering if I could rent a room."

The fat, balding man looked up at me. He too had an aristocratic air, as well as a snobby nose that stuck up like a pig's. I prepared myself for the inevitable degradation, but was treated fairly decently. As we discussed how I would pay, I heard the door slam as someone came in.

A young, manly, all-too-familiar voice cried from behind me, "Bastian, I'm here at last! Give me your offer!"

I didn't dare turn around. I froze, shaking with anger and fear. This was the end; I was sure to be recognized and thrown in prison.

The young man strode up to the desk and slammed his hands on it, grinning. It was very like him, from what I remembered, to cut ahead of me, as if his affairs were of more importance than the common man's. The older man (Bastian, I gathered) smiled lightly.

"Ah, Raoul, your father told me you were interested in purchasing one of my summer homes. Ready to move out at last, are we?"

The stupid boy frowned, obviously sensitive to the fact that he had lived with his parents for some time. I would have taken great pleasure in this had I not been petrified.

"I am married now, Bastian, as I'm sure you know. My wife and I will be needing a home… and our privacy"

He chuckled. This time it was all too much. I looked up at him, hatred etched into my face. I could feel the rubber tug slightly at the skin above my eyebrows as I knitted them and glared.

The Vicomte noticed me at last. He looked puzzled.

"Are you going to be sick, Monsieur?"

Quite possibly, I thought, though I was relieved and shocked that he hadn't recognized me. Once again, did a proper face make that great of a difference? I suddenly wondered if even Christine would recognize me. It was a painful thought. I shook my head and went back to waiting my turn to speak with Bastian.

Raoul went on. "You know, I think the mansion you are selling would be perfect. All it needs is a little renovation- no offense, of course. I'm sure I could even live in it while the work is done. I just need to find myself a personal architect, someone to come by and fix it up on a daily basis. Good architects are so hard to come by these days; why is that?"

Oh, God. The plot seemed too perfect to ignore, the way it unfolded just so. Destiny was tempting me again, the way it had the night I first heard Christine sing. It was pulling me in. My logical conclusions and promises to Madame Giry and Nadir were hopeless against its power. I was trembling again, this time with anticipation. I couldn't do this; it was horrible; it would destroy me. And yet I had to. I couldn't stop myself. The impulses that ran through me were too strong. It had already been set into motion long ago.

The words came tumbling out before I could stop them.

"I am an architect, Monsieur. A very highly qualified one, in fact."


	4. The Following Two Weeks

It was several weeks before the Vicomte came for me. During those weeks, I had made myself quite comfortable in my new apartment. I spent most of the hours going for walks to the park where I sat under the trees for shade, watched ducks in the pond, wrote, and sketched. More often than not I was alone, but sometimes young couples would come to sit by the pond as well, usually on the opposite bank. The day the Vicomte would be coming for me was one of those days.

I watched the boy tease the girl; I watched her laugh and pretend to be angry, flushing red. I watched the boy take the girl into his arms and kiss her, both of them rolling onto the grass, laughing and kissing and touching one another, happy and safe. Perhaps they ran to the park to escape pressures of the outside world.

I recalled the one time I dared to take Christine to a similar park at night. I remembered how we spoke of illusions, and of the night… and how close she had been to grasping my outstretched hand… before that wretched boy showed up. There had been love in her eyes when I spoke to her- I had been so sure of it! What a fool I must have been! She left me that very same night, going with Raoul as if he had saved her from my company. How I had ever thought she loved me was a mystery. Still, it was a very convincing look that used to consume those blue eyes.

The boy and girl across the lake clearly did not think anyone would be in the park watching them this late in the evening. Their actions indicated that they believed themselves to be alone, as he began to take off her dress. I felt a burning jealousy in knowing that they could find solace in one another. The world that two lovers shared was one I felt barred from once more. I hurried off, shaking, ignoring the tears steaming down my fake cheek.

Back at my apartment, I began to play violin almost violently, not allowing myself to fit painful thoughts in-between the measures. My fingers bled for the first time since I was just a boy, causing me to stop abruptly. I stared at the torn calluses and began to cry again, despite myself. I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving as I sobbed.

I cursed myself and my weakness, trying to get a hold of myself, but it was impossible. It took me several minutes to calm down enough to walk to the mirror and wipe away my tears. I stared at the reflection; normal face or not, we all look pathetically ugly when we cry. I swore and turned away.

Sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing my eyes, I tried to sort things out in my head. What on Earth was I doing? Why had I offered my assistance to Raoul? I was most certainly not ready to deal with any of this; I couldn't see Christine. I couldn't trust myself not to turn into the Opera Ghost again, not to do something stupid like try to force her to love me. I couldn't trust myself not to lose my will to live once more and actually go through with it this time. What was I doing this for?

Partly revenge, said a voice in my head, I wanted her to see me now. I wanted her to want me; I wanted her to feel the loss I had. I wanted to hurt them both. But a gentler part admitted, hesitantly, that it still had hope that Christine would have missed me. It dreamed that my new mask would perhaps change everything. The logical side of me scolded me for even considering taking Christine back, should such events occur. But as it often had when I was trying to convince myself that it was all right to delve deeper into my obsessions with the girl, perhaps the meekest part of my mind whispered, "You only want to see her… you only want to look at her, hear her voice… is that so wrong?" No. No, it wasn't.

I curled up with my pillow like a child, staring at the wall, feeling cold suddenly, but a bit better. I got up to close the window and perhaps grab another blanket when there was a knock at the door. I peeked through the eyehole and saw the pompous ex-Patron of the Opera Populaire standing in the hall, checking his watch. I let out a sigh to calm my fury, and then opened the door.

"Ah, Monsieur Delacroix," the boy said with a forced smile, obviously a bit put off by my expression.

I cursed myself for not naming myself something more well-thought-out than my birth name, but no bother. It wasn't as if Christine had known me as anything but The Angel of Music or Erik, nor had Raoul known me as anything other than the Phantom of the Opera.

Raoul held out his hand. I shook it stiffly. "I was about to go to sleep, Monsieur. What do you want?"

Raoul shrugged. "It's only early evening. I was in the area, so I thought I'd see if you'd be willing to come with me to discuss some of the construction plans over dinner at my manor."

With his wife, no doubt. I felt a flutter of nerves, and a voice in the back of my mind (strangely similar to the stern Madame Giry's) screamed, "No, Erik! Back out now, before it's too late!"

I gave the Vicomte a cold smile. "I'd be delighted."


	5. Silhouetted Against The Horrible Light

The carriage was waiting for us at the door. Outside it had begun to pour, and neither one of us had brought an umbrella. How typical we must have looked, two Frenchmen in black overcoats and dress wear, hurrying across the wet cobblestone to our carriage. To the passerby, we may have even appeared to be friends.

Once inside the dark carriage, I took off my fedora and smoothed back my hair.

"So, Monsieur, what is it we will be discussing tonight?"

Raoul looked more tired and older than I remembered. His dark eyebrows were furrowed as if troubled by something, and his long, straight hair silhouetted his boyish face in a very drab manner. He was startled when I spoke, as if thrown from a trance.

"Oh, well, I don't know much about architecture to be honest. I'll leave the technical thinking up to you. I thought we could just discuss some vague ideas over dinner with my wife. She's much more particular about design. She's more of an artist than I am. Always was…"

I nodded, feeling my stomach flutter once more. After this, the rest of the ride was in a somewhat awkward silence as I watched the raindrops race down the glass carriage windows. Eventually the storm ceased and the clouds parted to reveal a glorious moon, illuminating the countryside. I felt my mind go blank; I felt my body start to relax. I could have easily fallen asleep right there in the carriage across from my unknowing enemy.

When the carriage stopped I came back to life. A chill ran through my body as Raoul lit a lantern.

"What time is it?" I asked, yawning despite myself. The boy checked a gold pocket watch.

"It's only eight-thirty, Monsieur. If you'd like to go straight to bed, though, we could reschedule dinner."

I mumbled that tonight would be fine and followed the Vicomte and his lantern up to an impressive mansion. I didn't know what was becoming of me; usually I was wide awake at night. Perhaps it was the hours I had been spending awake during the day at the park these past few weeks. I'd always thought of myself as nocturnal, so I was ashamed to feel this drained.

Pillars held up the entrance to the house; statues and fountains littered the lawn. It was very grand, very classic: very much my style. The Vicomte turned a key in the hole of the heavy oak door and led me inside. Dim candlelight illuminated the hallways. I could see down them to a kitchen with a long wooden table where the light seemed to be unnaturally brighter. "And now we shall go to supper," said the Vicomte de Chagny, and I followed him nervously, breathing heavily and not bothering to return his fake smile.

The light in the kitchen was blinding. I felt dizzy, confused. I heard Raoul's voice somewhere far away, saying, "This is my wife, Christine. Christine, this is Monsieur Delacroix, the architect I told you about." I couldn't see her, I couldn't find her. The room was a blur. My face felt like it was burning, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I heard Raoul sounding concerned. The words were indistinct. I felt myself falling, slowly. "I'm dying," I thought, "I'm dying, right here." I felt cold as I hit the floor, and I looked up and saw the face of an angel, worried and bewildered, silhouetted against all that terrible light. "Christine…" I whispered through dry lips, and the world went black.

I awoke in a bed, alone. The velvet sheets were cool and soothing, the dark of the night a relief. I must have passed out. I only hoped that it had been a servant and not the Vicomte who had carried me to bed and undressed me. I cursed, feeling ashamed. How foolish I must have looked. Especially to Christine.

Christine. The name echoed in my head, and I felt chilled again. With a sudden jolt I realized that she was in the same house as me, most likely sleeping. I lay back down against the pillow, but shot back up in no time. I had to see her again. I gracefully climbed out of bed and opened the bedroom door noiselessly. I lurked down the hallway like a cat, barely even breathing. Of course, she'd be in the master bedroom with Raoul. But no bother, I'd see her. I crept up to the door and was about to turn the handle when my senses came over me. Raoul was in there. She was sleeping with him. So many things could go wrong if I opened that door. I sighed, frustrated. I needed to see her suddenly; it was like it was back when I'd lure her to me at the opera house. Just by seeing her face, just by knowing she was near, I was addicted. And I couldn't make it much longer; the wait was killing me.

Just then I heard movement downstairs. Like a hungry animal I crouched down and listened. Someone was down there- someone was playing the piano. Oh, could it be her? As far as I knew, Raoul had no musical talent. I crept down the stairs and followed the sound, carefully making my way down the halls in almost complete darkness. In the parlor, a candle was lit.

I could see the back of her small body as she sat at the stool of the piano, her fingers lightly touching its keys, slowly attempting to weave together a song alone in the dead of night. The notes were familiar- I had written them. I felt tears gather in my eyes. She was struggling. She gave up and rested her head against the instrument. It was in horrible need of tuning; it wasn't entirely her fault. I listened from behind the corner that led into the room as she wept quietly, thinking herself to be alone. Despite all the grief she caused me, I hated to hear her in pain and longed to comfort her.

"Erik…"

I jumped at the whispered sound of my name. But she hadn't noticed me. No, she was simply calling for me in the dark, not ever dreaming I could hear her. "Erik, please forgive me… please come back… I made a terrible mistake. Please don't let any of this be true, please… Erik…"

I couldn't believe it. Suddenly, a sickening feeling grew in my stomach as I remembered the words I had read less than a month ago in Nadir's newspaper. " b **Erik is Dead /b **".

Oh, the poor child. She believed me to be gone forever. I no longer wanted revenge. I wanted to run to her, save her from her misery! I wanted to cry, "Christine, angel, it's me, it's me, your poor Erik! Oh, you haven't forgotten me, you haven't! And now we'll run away together, and you'll love me, I know you will. You'll love me more than that boy, and look, Christine! Look at this face I have made! Why, you didn't even recognize me! I am handsome, handsomer than your precious Vicomte… Everything is over now; we are free, Christine, we are free!"

I did all these things and more in my mind. But something caught me. As I was about to reveal my presence, a warning, sinking feeling of déjà vu struck me cold. I watched the girl cry, my sympathy draining. I remembered how I, too, had cried, for weeks on end. I remembered how she left me, with her hand in his, left me to die, like a sick dog, whimpering and pathetic, alone in my underground tomb. I remembered the words I had heard and the way they resonated, stabbing me again and again, leaving scars that would never heal.

i "He's a monster, Raoul, we must leave as soon as we can. If he finds me, he won't let me go…" "He's horrible; I'm so frightened; we must get away." /i And the most painful of all: i "It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…" /i 

It was all about Christine. About her father, about her loss, about her confusion and pain. Never about mine. She cried because she felt guilty and alone. Not because I had died alone in a cellar, never feeling loved. I was suddenly sure of this. It kept more dangerous thoughts out of my mind.

I watched her cry cheap, hot, self-pitying tears for a few more moments. Then I coldly turned on my heel and went back upstairs to try to get some sleep again before dawn.


	6. The Morning After

Something was definitely wrong with me. I had to face this; I'd been avoiding it for too long. I knew that my health was failing; it had been for years, from lack of sleep and nutrition as well as substance abuse. But it was different lately. I hadn't simply passed out like that without warning since almost a year ago; I was just beginning to believe I was regaining my strength.

But now I often felt tired and dizzy. I was worried, and I knew I should go find Nadir or Madame Giry, or try to see a doctor. But I was stubbornly set on staying near Christine, even though I told myself I would not give in to my desire to go back to the way we were before. I would simply watch her and do my job as their architect.

A sort of battle was taking place in my head. I knew I still loved her. But I still could not forgive her, even after I saw how she, too, suffered. I was too afraid to open up to her again, too afraid of being severely hurt again… too afraid that this time, I'd be damaged beyond repair.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," I said lazily, and the door handle turned. It was her. She rushed over.

"Oh, thank God! Are you alright? My husband tried to find a doctor last night, but we're new to this area and we weren't sure where to go. I'm so sorry. … You hadn't come around when I went to bed. I was very worried."

I waved away her apology. "It happens from time to time. It's nothing… i trust me /i ."

The last two words came out oddly emphasized. I watched in horror as her face went white, her mouth open slightly. How could I have forgotten? Christine knew my voice like no one else, and I hers. I'm sure she remembered it better than my face, and that's saying something.

"What's the matter?" I said gruffly, avoiding her eyes, and then added, not being able to help myself "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She was staring at me in the most peculiar manner, searching me for some sort of sign. Then she seemed to snap out of it.

"Nothing, it's nothing… you just reminded me of someone, that's all."

She looked confused, out of place. Her curly hair was tied back neatly, her clothing conservative and proper, giving her the appearance of a little girl dressed in her mother's fancy clothing. It struck me as horribly tragic, suddenly, knowing her and knowing she could not be happy in this life she had chosen.

She was still very beautiful, and I felt myself falling in love with her again, despite myself. I found that my new mask, as well as being a stranger to her once more, gave me strange confidence. I touched her hand in a fatherly way and smiled. The way she relaxed was almost magic.

"It's all right. Let's go have breakfast. Can you cook?"

Her eyes lit up. "Well, I can try… I mean, yes, I do. Just, well… not always well. I mean, Raoul, my husband, doesn't seem to mind it, or anything." She sensed that she was rambling. "I'm sorry, I'm talking too much. Let's go downstairs."

On the way down she kept smiling at me and talking about what we could have for breakfast, as well as what she'd like to see me do with the place. It seemed almost as if she were making up for the long silence that had been her marriage by telling me whatever came into her head. I didn't mind the constant talk. God knows I, too, had been lonely since she left me. It was always funny to me that Raoul and Madame Giry and whoever else thought that I lured Christine to me with my voice. The truth is, she lured me to her first, with hers. And I was as intoxicated by the mere sound of it as ever.


	7. A Beautiful Mess

I sipped tea at the kitchen table as I watched Christine making breakfast. The kitchen didn't seem so bright and overwhelming in the morning; the rising sun was sending a pleasant, warm orange glow over the room. I felt surprisingly calm.

"Where is the Vicomte?" I asked as she cracked an egg over a dish.

Christine hesitated, then said, "He left fairly early. He has business he needs to discuss with some man in Paris. He doesn't usually make it for breakfast, but he's back for dinner sometimes."

I looked at her sympathetically. "So you spend the days alone?"

She sighed. "It's not as horrible as you make it sound. I mean, that's how all wives have it. I keep the house in order, while my husband… well… takes care of other things. That's life."

I shrugged. "If you say so, Madame. If you say so."

She looked hurt after this, and didn't talk to me very much. Suddenly, without warning, she looked up at me with those startling blue eyes, frustration in her voice. "What do you think I should be doing?"

I sipped the tea slowly, choosing my words carefully. "You strike me as someone who was meant to do more with their life." She gave me a piercing glare. "What is a greater honor than being loved by the Vicomte de Chagny? What is more fulfilling than being a wife, and soon, a mother? What is more fulfilling than love, Monsieur Delacroix?"

"Nothing," I said, taking another sip, and then looking down and adding quietly, "If you i are /i in love."

She had her back turned to me when I looked up, and didn't face me. "I don't want to talk to you anymore. I don't know who you think you are or what you think you know. But I don't want to talk about this with you any longer."

I respected her wishes and went into the parlor. The piano I had seen the night before looked even more tempting in the morning glow. I hadn't played in ages. I found some dusty tuning wedges on the mantle, and after tuning it properly, I sat down and stretched my fingers across the keys. I felt impulses running through my body, tingling in my finger tips. I was aching to play. I struck a chord lightly. Then I took off.

I wasn't even thinking as my fingers danced across the keys. I was completely intoxicated by the sound that was filling the air. It was hard to say which I had missed more: Christine or the instrument I adored above all others. The piano, at least, I could master, I could understand and depend on to always follow the same rules. Understanding, however, grew boring, I found, as I could master almost any art or skill that I taught myself. Dependability also, no matter how rare it had been in my life, I sometimes found was rather dull. I sometimes wonder if that was why I was so attracted to the unstable girl. She was one of the first things that I'd ever felt challenged by.

I wasn't thinking about any of these things as I played, though. My mind was completely blank; it was almost therapeutic. I didn't hear Christine come in the room. I didn't notice her presence until she began to sing along to the music.

"' i My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb I made my way by stealth, and here, far from every human gaze, in your arms I wished to die... /i '"

I turned around and looked at her, tears in my eyes. Her tears had already fallen and begun rolling down her cheek. She was shaking, and I was suddenly terrified. "Madame-?"

"Don't even try to tell me its not you, Erik."

I looked away. She was still staring. I wished she'd stop.

"Are you an angel?"

I smirked. "Those were your words my dear, not mine."

She sobbed inwardly. "It is you, it really is! My God, am I alive, Erik? Am I dreaming? Where is your face? Is it your soul I'm seeing? Is this how you were meant to be in life? Is this God's apology to you, or his punishment to me? Has he sent you for vengeance? It was me who killed you, Erik, wasn't it? I killed one of God's angels, and now you won't let me forget it!"

She was in hysterics. She barely whimpered the last words when she fell to the ground crying. I was in awe.

"Child, please, I'm not dead, and you aren't being punished. Christine, listen to me, I never died. I made this mask, like I told you I would. Don't you remember? I'm alive, believe me!"

She was still crying. "I don't believe this. I can't believe this. You aren't here. You aren't."

I suddenly felt sick. I should never have done this. How could I have imagined she wouldn't have known it was me? I was hurting us both. I couldn't bear the sight any longer.

"I should go."

"No!" she cried as she grabbed the hem of my dress pants. "No, no, you can't leave me here. I'm all alone, Erik, I can't pretend it isn't true. I hate you for the things you said to me in the kitchen, and yet I love you for the very same reason. I don't want to hear those words, Erik, I don't want to think about this half-life I'm living. No one else speaks that way to me- my world is full of empty parties and formalities, petty small talk and status. I could almost begin to forget you, forget the music, forget everything, but now… now that I almost lost you forever, now that I have seen you, heard you again, I can't let you go. I can't let you, otherwise everything I truly am is gone with you forever. Please don't leave me alone. Erik, I've been dreaming of what I'd do if I could see you just one more time, of how I could have made it up to you, how I could have shown you how I really felt. I have that chance now. You can't leave." She took a breath, and then said very quietly, "I love you, Erik."

My whole life I had never heard those words spoken, and I felt myself weaken. I recovered, though, telling myself over and over not to fall into this again, not to believe I could be happy.

"You're married to the Vicomte. That was your choice; we can't change that."

She shook her head. "No, no, I don't care; we can do anything we want! I know we can. Erik, if you wanted to, you could do anything for us. I know it."

I felt sick again. "It doesn't matter. You chose him."

"Say you love me, Erik… please… say it."

"Why?"

"Please, I need to hear it." I wished she wouldn't look at me that way.

"Of course I love you, but it doesn't matter. You're with him."

She shook her head again. "I don't care. We'll run away."

That was it. I'd had it. I kicked over a lamp, trembling.

"Don't lie to me!"

She cowered on the floor, speechless.

Finally, I gained some composure. "You're toying with me again, Christine. But I refuse to play this deadly game of yours. Don't be selfish. You left me alone; why shouldn't I do the same to you? I wanted to die, Christine, I truly did. But I'm alive now, and I'm not going to fall into the same trap. You wouldn't run away. You wouldn't hurt your precious husband like that; you wouldn't abandon this new life for the unknown. You'll change your mind by the time the week is out."

She was crying even harder. I didn't think it was possible. "Why did you come here, then? Why did you come back to me if you don't want me anymore?"

She was right. I felt the venom draining, I felt myself longing to collapse on the floor next to her, wrap my arms around her, and just cry with her. But I couldn't.

"I made a mistake," I said coldly.

She closed her eyes and nodded. There was a long silence.

"Please stay anyway, Erik. I won't tell him. I won't tell anyone."

She looked up at me, pleading, her beautiful face stained with tears.

I couldn't refuse her.


	8. Christine's Lament

I played piano the rest of the morning and afternoon. Christine hurried around the mansion doing housework; I could hear her come in and out from time to time. Late in the afternoon, she came into parlor once more and I felt her come up behind me. I stopped playing.

"I used to sometimes get jealous of your pipe organ. Did you know that? When I'd spend days with you in the cellars…. I sometimes felt you focused more on your instrument than you did me. I was a silly child back then. But as much as I feared you, I always did crave your approval above anything else."

I sighed. "Focusing on you is often painful, Christine."

She watched my face for a moment.

"You're mask is amazing. You look…"

"Handsome?" I laughed. "Yes, I've heard. It's terribly hilarious how shallow this world has become, how much attention I get now."

I said that just to make her jealous, and could tell it worked. There were a few moments' pause. Then-

"Can we sing together again, Erik?"

I smirked. "You're so eager to sing these days; no doubt it was a mistake to leave your career."

Her reaction to this was strange. She bowed her head almost in shame and said in a tremulous whisper, "I only want to sing for you."

I was secretly moved, but shrugged. "If you say so, my dear. What would you like me to play?"

She kept her head lowered and said something inaudible.

"Speak up, child."

She looked up at me, took a breath, and suggested, "Something you wrote?"

I played some of my Don Juan Triumphant and taught her to sing the parts I had written especially for her voice. As she sang, I watched her come alive once more, I watched the resurrection of the girl I had loved, watching me in awe, craving my approval, both of us helplessly consumed by the vibrations of the music that flowed within us. It was our shared passion; it brought us together, close in away that neither of us ever would feel with another. I stopped playing.

"Christine..." I was overwhelmed with emotions, my head drooped in despair.

She cautiously stepped towards me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I felt myself grow tense. She hesitated, then leaned her head against my shoulder. She then dared to even kiss my cheek; the one I could feel with. I looked down at her with fearful eyes, but when I met her gaze, so full of adoration, the fear vanished for a moment.

"I love you, Erik. Believe me." She reached up and undid her hair, letting the dark curls cascade freely down her shoulders. She buried her head in my chest.

"You have no idea how I've missed you. I knew the minute I kissed you that terrible night that I didn't belong with Raoul, and I never would, I've just been trying to deny it… Oh Erik, I've been fighting it so long. I just can't anymore. I was so young, so stupid, so selfish. What I've done to both of you is horrible. I don't deserve what I have; I don't deserve what I want. But oh, God, I still want it..."

Her hair brushed lightly against my face. I imagine that if I had a real nose, it would have smelled heavenly. My whole being felt so warm and content, I couldn't even speak. I just listened, just took in all the sensations. I felt my arms wrap around her, I felt her soft body press up against my thin chest. I was having trouble controlling my breathing patterns. She kissed my neck. "I need you here, Angel…. Master…"

I gasped slightly, involuntarily, and stammered, "Christine, you're- you're married to the Vicomte, and as much as I'd-"

There were footsteps in the hall. Christine stood up abruptly, flattening her dress and tying back her hair.

It was Raoul. He came into the parlor just as Christine had gained composure. "Hello, my love. I'm home early." He kissed her on the cheek quickly and she blushed, not from embarrassment, but shame.

"Ah, Monsieur Delacroix, I'm glad to see you're all right. I contacted a doctor today while I was in town. He'll be stopping by later."

I shook my head. "No, that's quite unnecessary. I just hadn't eaten all day. It happens from time to time." This wasn't completely a lie. In fact, I was feeling faint as we spoke.

Raoul yawned. "I'm quite exhausted, but I'd like to start on designing the place tonight. Are you up to it, Monsieur?"

"Of course, of course." I gave the piano one last longing gaze. Raoul looked from one of us to the other. Christine looked as if she were in another world completely.

"Should we first talk over dinner then?"

Christine snapped out of it. "Oh, oh, yes… yes, I'll start cooking it right away." She hurried out of the room. Raoul watched her, frowning.

"She's really been a wreck these past weeks. I worry about her. It all started when that Opera Ghost fellow died."

I pretended to look confused by this. Raoul sighed. "It's a long story, it really is, but I'll say this much: the man had it coming to him. If you can even call that thing a man…

"Delacroix, he had the most repulsive face, it was almost laughable! Had he worked for a gypsy sideshow, he could have made millions. But the beast belonged in a cage- he was a murderer, and tried to kill me. The poor girl was brainwashed and idolized him. I know he's in Hell now where he belongs, but still I can't stand that he haunts her even now that he's dead."

He shook his head in grief and led me into the kitchen.

"Side show freaks don't get paid. They get whipped and caged." I whispered to myself, and then I followed the naïve fool into his kitchen.


	9. Defenseless and Silent

I saw little of Christine in the next several months. It seemed that from that day forward, Raoul started putting me to work. He took me with him to Paris to choose materials or negotiate with banks for loans to complete our project. Meanwhile, my health kept getting worse and worse. I knew that Nadir and Madame Giry were situated somewhere nearby; I had received letters telling me of their new location, back at my old apartment. However, I put off seeing them. I didn't want to tell them about Christine. I didn't want to ask them what they thought from what my illness resulted. I was afraid of the answer and what it would mean.

The little time I did spend at the Vicomte's mansion was spent sketching designs and eventually painting walls, sanding, and staining wood floors. Around November, I began to renovate the parlor, doubling its size. The piano had to be moved into a spare room, along with all the other objects in the room. The good thing about this was that the spare room was small and closed in, and nearly soundproof. This meant I could play all night without disturbing anyone if I wished.

I worked quickly; when I was about fifteen, I had been taught by a great architect and stone mason how to skillfully complete buildings under a time limit. By the time winter came around, I had finished the construction and moved on to sanding and painting the interior. I would work on this well into the night, and often sneaked off to play piano in the spare room. On a particular night when I was doing just that, there was a light knock at the door.

Christine was silhouetted in the doorway. She looked bothered by something, as usual. I smiled lightly.

"So you found me."

She nodded.

"What is it child, can't you sleep?"

She shifted uncomfortably then said in a small voice, "It just occurred to me, Erik… you're almost finished with the construction. Soon you'll… you'll have to leave."

I didn't respond to this.

I began to play again: my Don Juan Triumphant. I had finished it long ago, and my fingers easily followed the memorized patterns. I sang, quietly at first, then more powerfully.

"So once again you are mine. Forgetting my face, but never the time. Disillusioned by your choice, you hope to forget my voice. Try your hardest to move on. But there is no escaping Don Juan. There is no escaping Don Juan."

She had never heard me sing this part before. We never finished my opera the night it was performed, and this was very near to the end. She curled up by my feet, leaning her head ever so slightly against my leg.

The music grew more powerful. I felt myself losing composure. My neatly slicked back hair fell forward as I struck the chords. I had used Don Juan greatly as an outlet—not only for wicked thoughts, but also for sexual frustration that had accumulated over decades. I had underestimated its intoxicating power once more.

I jumped when I felt a small hand touch my thigh. I stopped playing and looked down. Christine had the most bizarre look on her face: one almost of utter fascination, as she stared at her own hand. She gazed up at me with a look in her eyes I'd seen before; the night we performed my opera, the night I had shown up at the Masquerade, the night I first brought her to my underground home…

She stood up slowly and moved her hands to my face. I closed my eyes momentarily, feeling the warmth surge through me again. I then watched intently as she ran her fingers through my hair, that bizarre look still in her eyes, as if she were studying me.

Suddenly, she stopped. I whimpered quietly despite myself. Others cannot possibly understand how it feels to have been neglected from touch since birth, and the urgency that I was feeling. She smiled very slightly and lowered herself down onto my lap, facing me. She took my hand to her lips and kissed it gently. I closed my eyes, embarrassed, knowing that there was no hiding what I was feeling any longer as she pressed against me.

"I don't want this to end, Erik."

I dared to reach out a shaking hand to touch her cheek gently. She didn't stop me. Gradually I began to stroke her face, then her neck. Like me, she seemed almost to be in some sort of trance. I hesitated as I reached the nape of her neck. She took my hand again, gripped it firmly, and whispered in my ear:

"Erik… I don't want you to be afraid. I don't want to you to hold back. Whatever you want to do, I want you to do it. I should have been yours long ago. Take what I so shallowly denied you. Take what every woman has denied you. Have your way with me."

I felt the urgency multiply. I had never been taught what to do, but instinct in times like these is an amazing thing. I watched myself remove her dress, and then her corset, watched myself run my spider-like hands over her flawless bare skin. I picked her up in my arms and laid her down on top of the back of the grand piano.

She kissed me deeply as I leaned over her. I felt her tongue in my mouth, felt the slight vibrations when she moaned, and felt her small hands begin to undo the buttons of my shirt. She began to run her hands over my chest, and paused suddenly on the deep, ugly scars that ran across it. She gave me a puzzled look.

I swallowed, then said, "I used to be whipped. By gypsies, when I was younger. They're on my back as well. I'm sorry, I know they're quite unsightly…"

"Oh Erik…" She kissed my ear and whispered, "I wish we could have done this before you made that mask of yours. You'll always think I wouldn't have accepted you, won't you? That question will always be there."

She meant it would be there for both of us, I was certain, but I didn't let it bother me. I suddenly felt a surge of hope, and I took her hands in mine.

"Christine, it doesn't matter. I am a new man. The Phantom of the Opera is dead. Now there is only Erik. Run away with me, as you said you would. I can show you the world, I can write you songs, I can build you a home ten times as beautiful as this one. We'll be this way always- tonight will never end. Oh, Christine, night itself will never end!"

I was dumbstruck by the look of guilt in her eyes. She kissed me again. "Erik, lets not talk now…"

Fear hit me cold. "But Christine, you said things were different."

"I just don't know right now…"

I got up and began to back away from her.

"But…but you said…you said." I sounded like a little boy, but I didn't care. "You lied."

She was crying as she sat up on top of the piano, naked and exposed. "No, I didn't lie, it's just…it's just that I'm scared. I'm scared of everything, I-I- Erik, no, please don't leave! Don't leave right now." She reached out to me, sobbing once more.

I turned my back to her and threw my cloak on over my bare chest. "I can't deal with this right now. I can't let myself. It will just hurt more when it's over. Christine, it doesn't even matter. I know it wouldn't last anyway. It would all be over in a second, and it would torture me forever. No, no…no, I can't."

I was shaking. Tears flowed freely. "I'm ill, Christine. My face is infected, horribly. I burned this onto my flesh." I pointed to my face, and her eyes got wide with horror. "That's how deeply I wanted normalcy. And once again, my dear, you taunt me with it, and then just rip it away. It's horribly ironic, isn't it? I've known for a while I'd have to remove this façade. One can't just burn oneself severely and expect to live with it forever.

"Ah well, at least I learned a valuable lesson. Perhaps it is safer being a monster after all. So say goodbye to your handsome secret lover and all the passion he brings. Tomorrow I leave, at dawn. Your husband can find someone else to finish this job."

And so I left her shaking and sobbing again. I coldly mounted the stairs to my room, reverting back to my old state of mind, becoming, in essence, the frigid gargoyle that was the Phantom.

For the first time since the opera disaster, the words of the newspaper rang true. Erik was dead.


	10. The Infection Which Poisons Our Love

I was laughing as I walked out of the house early that morning, with my suitcase in one hand and violin case in another, cloak over my head. I was laughing as I heard her crying, and as I heard her stand up and shout. "Erik, if you leave, I'll hate you!" I laughed; I laughed and said, "Good then. It will be a lot less painful then enduring your love, I daresay."

I was laughing when Raoul came down stairs, having heard the noise. "What's the matter? Where are you going monsieur?"

I laughed when I threw off the cloak. I was still bleeding from where I had viciously torn off the fake skin with my knife. The effect was twice as worse as it had been in the past, as the blood flowed steadily.

"Its me, monsieur, don't you recognize the angel of death?"

Raoul gasped and Christine covered her eyes. I laughed once more. "I don't have time for you children."

Raoul had grabbed a shotgun. Christine screamed.

"Raoul, NO!"

The fire went off, missing me at first.

"Do it, monsieur, please, I implore you…put me out of misery."

I smirked a horrible mangled smirk when the second bullet hit my hand. Christine dove at him and wrestled the pistol away, screaming. I felt myself swaying dizzily. I gained composure enough to feel the horrible stinging ache, and stumble out of the house, cradling my sickeningly limp hand.

I made my way to a cluster of hedges not far away, and collapsed underneath them. My arrogant sarcasm died instantly and I sobbed, pressing firmly against my hand to stop the bleeding. I lied there crying for several hours, not caring if I was found. I had reverted back to a state of mind I had thought forever abandoned. A part of me wanted to die, right there. The other part wanted revenge.

"Poor Erik," I whispered stupidly, "your poor, poor Erik…"

"Luckily for you, my friend, Monsieur de Chagny felt I was the only officer who was clever enough to find you." Nadir was leaning over me as the sun was beginning to rise, his head peering through the shrubbery.

"Argh, Nadir, leave me…"

The Daroga sighed and helped me to my feet.

"Come Erik, I'm taking you home."

My money had indeed bought Nadir and Madame Giry a very nice home. Unlike the de Chagny residence, it had a very welcoming feel to it, a very warm radiance. It was two stories, with a large yard that backed up to a lake. Nadir joked that now I had a 'proper' house on a 'proper' lake, above ground. We were far away from the bustle of the city, which was a comfort now that I just wanted to rest.

When Madame Giry opened the door, I felt more ashamed then I thought possible. I remembered how she told me not to go looking for them, and also how proud she had been on my new face. I bowed my head in shame.

"Oh, my boy…" She took me in her arms and kissed my hair. "You poor dear. Monsieur Khan, can you find us some soap and some bandages?"

Madame Giry, the old ballet teacher, my pseudo mother in essence, was the only woman who had ever treated me with consistent kindness. And now, when I was a wreck once more due to my own undoing, she was once again by my side. She helped me into the bathroom, and when I saw my reflection, I began to cry silent tears once more. The phantom had returned, hideous and pathetic. "Almost laughable…" the Vicompt's words echoed in my head. I closed my eyes in grief.

Madame Giry gently began to clean the bullet wound on my hand. I knew what she was thinking., so I said it, my eyes still closed tightly.

"If I can't play my instruments anymore, I don't have anything, Madame."

She told me to hush and bandaged my hand with the supplies the Daroga had brought us. I cursed the Vicpmt in my head; he had quite possibly taken away the only two things I adored.

Madame Giry began to lightly try to wash my face.

"I'll do it myself." I mumbled, turning away. "Meanwhile, could you find me my mask? The white one, preferably, if you kept it."

She smiled reassuringly. "I always did think you looked best in that one."

While she was gone, I rubbed soap over the grotesque mess that was my face, feeling the sting intensely. However, the physical pain kept my mind off Christine, and I welcomed it. I put bandages over many of the open cuts. Nadir poked his head in the door.

"You look like the worst shaving accident of all time."

Despite myself, I laughed.

When I lied down to sleep that night, I left my mask on. The old weight against my face was comforting. I felt I could hide again. I wondered what Christine was doing right now…what she told her precious boy…I imagined their conversations, torturing myself.

"Oh Raoul can you believe it was him? I was so frightened…"

"You don't have to worry my love, I'm here…he wont sneak back into our lives again, I promise."

"I've missed you, Raoul. You're gone so much more than I imagined. I miss your pretty eyes…I miss your talk of summertime. "

"But just wait until then, Little Lotte. We'll spend the whole summer alone together in our beautiful house, and we'll go on holidays, and see the ocean once more, like we did as children."

"I forgot how much you loved me."

"You know I do..."

I feel asleep to the imagined sound of their joyful young laughter, tears wetting my pillow.


	11. A Carriage Ride and A Confession

The next morning over breakfast, Nadir and Madame Giry eyed me nervously. I had replaced the white mask once more on my face, and my bathrobe hung off me in a tired way. My hand was wrapped in the same bandages it had been the night before, and I still couldn't move it. I was pretty sure several bones had been shattered. I hadn't touched my food. Madame Giry kept looking like she wanted to say something, and then would change her mind. Finally, it was Nadir who spoke.

"We have to take you to a doctor, Erik. This could all be very serious."

I didn't say anything, but stared intently at my untouched food. The last thing I wanted was to be poked and prodded.

"We can find one that's not in Paris," Madame Giry added, "so that you're less likely to be recognized."

I sighed. "Alright. I suppose we should leave immediately."

They both agreed. A half-hour later I was dressed in my usual black as we headed outside to a carriage. After he had paid the driver, Nadir stepped in after Madame Giry and I. Once the door was shut and we were under way, both of them turned to me. Madame Giry spoke.

"So Erik, we want to know what happened."

I paused, then told them the story of my last few months, leaving out a few select details, such as how physically close I had gotten to Christine. It was too painful to recollect right at that moment; plus, I was sure Madame Giry would disapprove; after all, Christine was a married woman.

I finished the story fairly calmly, losing composure for a second only when I described how Christine had said she loved me. Madame Giry didn't look surprised at all.

"She told me once in a letter that she did. After they had read that you were dead, after she had left the Opera, she still often wrote to Meg and me. I knew she was unhappy, but I also knew that if you went to her, itd be a disaster all over again."

The older woman looked almost as stressed as I felt.

"It's alright, Madame, at least now I know for myself that it would never work between Miss Daee and I. Two tries have been plenty enough. No more."

Everyone in the carriage knew that I said this with no conviction.

Visiting the doctor was awkward, but didn't last too long. He rambled on to Nadir about me being "a case unlike any other," and how my unbelievable birth defect was "not helped any by the burns." I sometimes wish that I didn't have such good hearing.

I was given a special ointment for my face, and a cast on my hand, to help the bones heal back into place. The doctor said it was impossible to tell whether I'd regain the same skills at playing piano.

"You're lucky it was your left, otherwise you couldn't write either."

Ha ha. Me, lucky. I tried to avoid this self pity, however, and as we rode back home, I felt slightly optimistic that I could regain my abilities.

As we neared Paris, Madame Giry spoke.

"Erik, would you like to stop by the Opera House? It is pretty deserted in the afternoons."

I hesitated. I wasn't sure I was ready for the inevitable memories that would flood me.

"Can we use one of the secret back entrances, just in case?"

She laughed. "I wouldn't expect anything else from the Phantom."


	12. Good News and Bad News

I threw my cloak over my head as we stepped out the carriage, to ensure that no one would recognize me. It wasn't as if anyone relating me to the Opera disaster would have even seen me well enough that night to recognize me now, but still, the mask itself was quite conspicuous, and I didn't wish to be caught.

It hardly mattered, for the back entrance was deserted, as I knew it would be. Except by special guests, such as the Vicompte, hardly anyone used it.

Inside, the building hadn't changed at all, except that it had an eery stillness to it now, like a ghost town. It was like stepping back into a memory, or perhaps a nightmare. The grand staircase reminded me of the night I had lost my control, the night where, after ignoring and avoiding her for three months, I had terrified Christine with my presence, along with the rest of the aristocratic Masqueraders in there stupid costumes. I had been so angry, so blinded by my lust to possess her. I was such a fool.

Madame Giry touched my arm, obviously sensing my thoughts. I looked down at her, and she gave me a weak smile. Nadir was studying the flyers posted on the far wall about the newest operas. He waved us over, and we crossed the room to stand beside him.

"Monsier Reyer, the maestro, passed away."

Madame Giry bowed her head. "He was a good man…"

Nadir had a glint in his eyes that I wasn't sure I liked. "Oh, I don't doubt that. But think on the bright side…he'll need a replacement."

I looked up suddenly, my expression full of scorn. "Daroga, if you're implying me, I think it goes without saying-"

"Well, why not? Erik, I've been telling you for years, those operas you write should not go to waste. They are some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard- no, don't roll your eyes, I mean it! Erik, surely you could pull it off, most of the staff here are different now anyway. No one would really recognize you, you'd be in the pit, and we'd just have to convince the new management…"

Madame Giry laughed. "You are rather good at swaying new managers, Erik. Maybe it'd work."

I sighed.

"Let me think on it. I'm not sure I want to teach signing to anyone anymore, to be honest. I've lost my passion for such things."

Nadir's eyes lit up again. "Call me crazy, but I think I have an even better idea. With all the rumors flying around, I'm almost certain that it's impossible to find new managers anyway, after Firmin and Moncharmin took off. And we, well_, you'd _have plenty enough money to buy the whole place."

It was tempting, I had to admit that. I had basically designed the opera house after all, and I defiantly knew it, inside and out, better than anyone. I had to find something to do with my life anyway, and what else would suit my interests this way? I had to try.

"Alright. We can use my bank account, but I'll need you two to do all the business work, I can't go revealing who I am."

As Nadir started to estimate costs, I felt my mind wander. What an opportunity this could be. Ever since I was just a young boy, I'd wanted to pursue a career in the arts, and all the years I had spent living in this very opera house, I had wanted to change the way things were run. This was a chance to change the music world; to make the Paris Opera atmosphere about talent instead of looks, passion instead of money, beautiful voices instead of women like Carlotta. With my friends' and my influence, the Paris Opera house could finally be a building I was proud of. The feeling was rather foreign to me, but I believe that what I was feeling after that day was best described as excitement.

For several months Nadir went away, saying he wanted to go back to Persia, to try to retrieve some of his old money. He'd lost most of it, greatly due to me, but the shah had died recently, and he hoped to be able to find at least a small portion of his old fortune. I doubted he'd have any luck, but Nadir was a proud man, and didn't like the idea of my paying for the Opera House as well as our home, and I undrrstood.

One day, back at our house on the lake, I was in my room attempting to sketch with my almost healed hand. My progress was amazing; I had hope that I'd soon be fully recovered. I was sktetching a statue I wanted outside the Opera House when Madame Giry came in, saying she had good and bad news.

"The good news is Nadir has sent word that the Paris Opera House is now yours, Erik. It's under your bank account, and as long as the Vicompte de Changy or his wife doesn't pry into our affairs, no one should recognize the name as that of the Opera Ghost."

I smiled. "Good, we shall start the renovating soon then. I daresay we'll have to purchase a new chandelier."

Madame Giry gave me a harsh look. "Don't make me regret helping you by bringing that up, Erik."

I felt ashamed suddenly, like I hadn't in a long time; both Nadir and Madame Giry's disapproval could do that to me like nothing else. It wasn't something to joke about, and I knew that. I felt sick, and turned away. I still had a tendency to act extremely detached from the human race, to allow my wit and sarcasm to overshadow my sincerity. It was not a facet of my personality that I was proud of.

"How many casualties were there?" I asked carefully, barely whispering.

"I'm not sure exactly. Between 10 and 15, I would guess. More than ten."

I winced. I hadn't really bothered to think about the murders I had committed. I had been too wrapped up in my own problems, my own self absorbed drama. Even now it was hard to take that in. It was hard to care, and that what made me the most upset with myself.

My dead mother's words echoed in my head, from a time when I had broken a grandfather clock in the hall in order to use its pieces for an experiment, I had cried and said that I needed them, and that it was important. . _"The means justify the ends…those are the words of the devil, Erik!"_

I didn't like to think about my childhood or my criminal history. I sat down on my bed. Madame Giry sat down next to me.

"I know you're sorry, dear. I also know you weren't in your right mind when you did it. I'm not saying it's alright, but I still forgive you, and so does Nadir."

I stared out the window. "I haven't really changed, Madame."

She shook her head. "Oh no, you have, Erik, you most certainly have changed, a great deal."

I swallowed. "I didn't tell you everything that happened when I was with…Christine."

My throat was suddenly killing me. I wished the old woman would look away and give me some privacy.

"I know that, dear. You don't have to."

I sighed. "Well, simply put, I'm no saner than I was the night of the disaster. I'd still do foolish things, _terrible _things, to win her love. I cannot pretend that I wouldn't do it all again if I believed it would change her mind."

"You want her to love you Erik. That's different. Before, you just wanted to possess her, no matter the cost. I don't believe you would really do it again. I think you've learned. Tell me, why did you leave the de Chagny residence?"

I frowned. "Because…because I didn't trust myself. I didn't trust anything."

Madame Giry urged me on. "So you left with somewhat dignity? You didn't beg her, you didn't try to kill Raoul, or murder innocent people?"

"No," I said simply, "I just left."

"There you go."

I felt infinitely better as she stood up to go, when suddenly I remembered.

"Madame, what was the bad news?"

"Oh….I almost forgot to tell you! Oh well, this will be difficult…I got a letter from Chritine this morning."

I felt painful pricking nerves in the ends of my fingers and toes.

"What did she have to say?"

Madame Giry sighed. "Oh, very sad things as usual," she said with slight boredom, "the most tragic being that her husband has left her to go off and fight in the war with Prussia."

I gasped. "Raoul is leaving her in that house all alone? As far as I know, there wasn't a draft…"

Madame Giry frowned. "Oh no, there is no draft. It seems they had a sort of falling out not too long after you left. Raoul accused Christine of knowing it was you all along, and try as she may, she couldn't convince him that she wasn't sleeping with you behind his back."

"We didn't."

"Be that as it may, Erik, the Vicompte felt he had been lied to. No doubt he is tired of feeling inferior, I daresay it's not something he's used to. Many men like that gain sympathy and revenge by making martyrs of themselves, by joining the war, by ensuring that they will be missed. The Vicompte is very young, and no doubt his parents approve this decision. From what I've been told, their suspicions that Christine was a whore have finally been confirmed."

I began to pace like an animal.

"This is my fault. I didn't mean to hurt either or them, I just…well, maybe I did want to, but now I…Oh god, Christine will be miserable, Madame, locked in that big house all alone. She'll go even madder than she already is, the poor girl."

Madame Giry closed her eyes, as if anticipating a blow, and said slowly and calmy, "That's why I invited her here, Erik."

The pages of sketches that had been in my hand dropped to the floor, and I stopped pacing.

"You did what?"

"She's as much my child as you are, dear. I had to help her in this time of need."

I mouthed words like an idiot for a few moments, and then finally managed to croak, "No."

"Yes, Erik…"

"No, this is my house; I pay for it, do I not? I will not have her here. Send her to live with family."

I of course knew she had no family.

"What about friends."

No, that was useless, her only friend had been Meg, and no one had seen the blonde ballerina since the disaster. According to Nadir, there was a rumor that she had taken the opportunity to run off with her lover, Andreas, of whom her mother did not approve. I had guessed it was a sensitive subject, and didn't bring it up.

"Erik, there is simply no one else she can turn to. No one. She has found herself in a terrible mess, and as much as I'd love to say that I told her so, I care about her too much to abandon her in this time of need. I know you feel the same."

This was Raoul's fault as much as mine. I couldn't deal with this, I couldn't, not after I'd stormed off like I had, not now that my face was hideous again. I didn't want to see the girl; I didn't want those feelings to return. I was content to never love again, to own my opera and make my art and write my music, and I was happy! For the first time in my life, I had truly accepted my fate to never marry, but I had my friends who cared for me, I had my talents, I had my career. I even had a home.

I would not let Christine tear apart my life once more!

"Erik, I'm still upset with her as well. But we have to try to put our feelings inside. We all care for her, and we cannot abandon her."

I gave Madame Giry a frustrated glare, although I did not blame her at all.

"Alright," I said finally, turning to pick up my sketches, "she can stay here. But I'm moving back to my cellar."


	13. Legendary

I had completely restored my underground home to its elegance. The pipe organ was fixed; the coffin was shrouded once more in the velvet drapes. It was colder down there in the winter than I remembered, and for the past few weeks I had shivered and ached, gathering blankets from above ground to keep warm.

I had purposely been avoiding Christine. I had left my friends and my home to freeze to death in this underground tomb, rather than see her. I was shivering today, as I sat at a desk with a quill, paying some bills that were necessary in order to import some new costumes for the Opera's newest production. Normally I would have Nadir take care of such things; he was the manager of the technical, and I the decider of mostly artistic decisions. I'd also given in and offered to give lessons to young singers, so long as they didn't ask too many questions. As far as conducting, as Nadir advocated for constantly, it was out of the question.

Madame Giry was teaching ballet again, and Nadir had an office above ground. However, I hadn't seen either of them in weeks, since I had been avoiding Christine. And now, when I was freezing, I resented the girl more than ever.

I gave up on trying to fill out the paperwork. I hated such things, I would have to go find Nadir and give it to him. Instead, I sat down at the organ and decided to work on something new I had been writing.

I didn't want Don Juan Triumphant to be performed again, at least not anytime soon. I had decided to work on a new opera though, a slightly less intense one, though only slightly. This one was about a fallen angel, and a young girl. Mostly about the girl.

I sighed. There was really nothing else I felt compelled to write. The music flowed so beautifully when I thought of her, almost writing itself. Christine would forever be my muse, whether I avoided her or not.

I played for several hours, completely wrapped up in the sound. I was about to stop and write down what I had come up with, when I heard a small voice from over my shoulder.

"Erik…"

I turned around slowly and met Christine's eyes, sighing angrily.

"How did you get here? The gondola was on this side."

She bowed her head. "Madame Giry helped me."

Curse women, all of them, I thought, setting down my quill. "Well, what is it Christine? Come to disillusion me into believing you love me, and then rip it away again? I think a few more times would do the trick really, get your point across."

She didn't speak.

"Or perhaps," I said, getting to my feet, "You are here out of sheer desperation, and think that poor old Erik will take you in, now that no one else will. Perhaps you've boiled down to your last choice, and you've decided that being with a half-man is better than living with no man at all. Or perhaps, my dear, you simply derive pleasure from hurting me, and wish to give me false hope again."

She still didn't speak.

"For Christ's sake, child, it must be important, if you came all the way down here-"

"Don't call me a child, and don't mock me!"

Her shrill scream echoed throughout the cellars, making me cringe. My sarcasm collapsed, and I apologized quietly, humbly.

She sat down on the stone steps and buried her face in her hands.

"I know I've been awful, Erik, and if you don't want to see me, I'll leave. But I can't stand to hear you mock me this way, I only feel worse."

I sighed, and said in a forced calm, "Why are you here?"

She didn't look up, and her voice was muffled by her hands.

"Speak up, dear, I can't ever hear you."

"I'm pregnant!"

She began to sob, her small shoulders shaking furiously. I felt my whole body go cold. I was forced to picture images I didn't wish to.

"How beautiful!" I said, ripping down the satin curtains, kicking a golden statue of a bird, "How wonderful this situation is! Bravo, Chrisitne, you have managed oncea gain to work yourself into an impossible situation."

She sobbed harder and backed away from me, huddled in the corner, but I couldn't stop yelling like a lunatic.

"Why did you need me then Christine, if the Vicompte has been giving you what you need? Why would you want me when you've got him and his flawless body, his flawless youthful beauty, his flawless, oh so noble personality! Why would you drive him away?"

"Its just as mush your fault! Why did you come back? Why couldn't you just let me believe you were dead."

I stared at her coldly. "Do you wish I were dead, Christine? Because I could arrange that."

"No, no, Erik, I don't mean that. God, I don't know what I mean." She was rubbing her eyes franticly, as if hoping to clear away something that was blocking her ability to see the world clearly.

"All I know is that Raoul is gone, and his child is growing inside of me."

I broke down crying without warning, uncontrollably. She looked up at me suddenly, shocked and helpless. "Erik…what..?"

I stumbled into my bedroom, falling onto the bed, covering my head with the pillow. "No more," my brain begged, "No more of this…"

She pulled away the pillow. "Erik, why are you crying?"

I gasped through tears, wishing I could make myself stop.

"Christine…Christine…" I spoke choppily, like I was losing my mind, "Christine, I wanted to be the father of your child…I wanted to be….I wanted that."

I cried and cried, and couldn't fight her as she got into the bed next to me, and wrapped her arms around me. I laid my head against her breast, barely aware of myself, and we both laid like that for the longest time. She kissed my hair. "I don't know whats going to happen, but over these past moths I have come to realize that, more than any man in the world, Raoul included, I would want you to be the father of my child. I trust you more than anyone to take care of me, whether I deserve it or not. Please say you will, Erik…please, I'll try so hard not to hurt you this time. Let me stay with you, even if its just as a friend. I can't do this alone."

I couldn't think properly. I was scared. But I loved her…it was almost a mystery to me why it felt so strong, why it consumed me the way it did, blinding me to everything I had told myself earlier. I nodded, and cried harder, pulling her to me. "I love you Christine…I love you so, so much…I don't mean the sarcastic things I say, I just…yes, yes, you can stay with me. You and your child."

Our foreheads touched, and I felt heaven on earth once more. She closed her eyes and smiled, looking as if a great burden had been lifted from her. "I don't deserve you, Erik. I hope you know that. I'm just a shallow little chorus girl, and you…you are legendary. I'll hurt you again. I hurt everyone I love."

I touched her hand. "Let's go to sleep, Christine."

Despite everything, it was simple when it was just us. If we could have remained in that tomb, pure, untouched, I am convinced that it never would have ended, and that our love would remain, unchallenged and beautifully tragic. In the dark, we were just like everyone else, a bit lost, a bit scarred, but a man and a woman, none the less, finding comfort in one another. The history could be stored back in our heads, and our fears for tomorrow put on hold. There was an infinite amount of comfort just in the warm presence of one another, and in the realization that we both understood something magnificent, that we both shared this untouched, dark world, even if only for one night, and laid our minds to rest in a dimension of music and love that other spirits would never reach. Despite our suffering, our short lived pleasures were so much more than that of the common man and woman. We both knew that ironically, we had been blessed. . No one could take that understanding we shared away from us.

Outside, millions of things were happening. Raoul was loading his gun, while Madame Giry worried and Nadir stared at walls in his secret loneliness. An old man died in the streets, and an aristocrat's wife turned away from him in a cold bed. But Christine and I were not a part of this world. The warm darkness surrounded us like a blanket, and we feel asleep in each others arms and thoughts.


	14. A Stroll Around the Lake

We went back to the house on the lake soon after that. It was strange to live like that, just the four of us. Several months passed, just this way, ideally in my mind, but Christine once again didn't seem happy. I kept my distance from her after the night in the cellars, determined to not appear needy. I spent most of my days cooped up in my room and most my nights attending the opera or wandering the parks and forests. I always loved the outside at night.

The Opera was performing Faust, my favorite opera, and was raking in it fair share of money. I would not have Il Muto, or any garbage like that when I was running the place. I wanted to ask Christine about playing the role of Marguerite; it was an awkward thing to ask, really, there were memories attached to Faust that would be recalled. But I didn't want any of the current sopranos getting the part.

Surprisingly, it was she who approached me that night. She knocked on the door of my room just as I was getting dressed to go out, and I opened it, after buttoning my shirt all the way. I had failed to notice how obviously pregnant she had become, perhaps because I hadn't seen much of her, and when I had, I never stared long, out of fear.

"Oh Erik." She fell into my arms and kept a tight hold on me for several minutes, speaking, muffled, into my chest, "are you avoiding me?"

I sighed and lightly pushed her away. "Perhaps a little. Should I not be?"

She looked hurt. "If you want to avoid me, then I suppose you should."

I hesitated. "Christine, this is all very foolish. We need to figure out what our relationship is going to be, before we go any further with anything. You must keep in mind, that Raoul is still you're husband, and may be coming back, and I am still a murderer who is a great deal older than you."

She sighed, as if not wanting to keep this is mind at all.

"I hate the way everything is. I can't just…just be. I have to follow these rules."

"Everyone does, Christine."

"Not you, Erik."

Her eyes were bright with adoration, "you don't care, you're better than all that…you do what you want, you live in a world of pure passion and love. I envy you."

I laughed. "You make me out to be either a saint or a monster. It's always black and white with you, isn't it? I'm either the problem or the solution."

She didn't seem t hear this. She looked up at me. "You are tall."

"I am aware of that."

"Can I come with you, wherever you're going? Please Erik? I won't cause trouble. I want to be with you."

I shrugged. "I suppose. Wear a warm coat. We're going for a long walk."

We walked around the lake, to a grove of trees that was on the opposite bank. It was cold, late November, and I saw her shivering. I almost would have thought she was exaggerating it. Finally I said, "Do you want to return?"

"No."

"Do you want my coat?"

No answer. I draped it around her shoulders anyway, and she looked at me in the way that she always used to, that made me feel more like her father than lover. I was never sure I liked this.

We sat down under a tree. The moonlight was shining on the water, and everything was a deep blue hue. I turned away from her and removed my mask, massaging my face. Sometimes the scabs still itched in a strange way.

"Erik," she said, "Are you going to try to make another mask like…like that one you had?"

I laughed bitterly. "Do you want me to?"

There was a long pause. I didn't realize that she was crying until she spoke.

"I'm horrible."

I didn't reply at first. Finally, I asked, "Why?"

"Because I do want you to."

"So?"

"So it shouldn't matter to me what your face is like."

I shrugged. "No, I suppose it shouldn't. But it matters to every other woman, so why should you be any different."

"You make me feel even worse Erik."

"I'm honestly not trying to."

I put my white mask back on and turned to face her. "Did you think I was handsome?"

Even though it was dark, I saw her blush.

"Very."

I wasn't sure what that made me feel. All I could think to do was talk. So I did.

"You know, in certain tribes it's believed that making love to someone in a mask isn't making love to them at all. That it doesn't count. Its strange, but it seems true to me, and it always has. Why does a face matter so much? I'll never understand. Do you feel that way, Christine? Does it count if someone is hiding their face?"

She was crying silent tears again. "Do you want me to be honest?"

"Yes."

She choked back a sob, and said, "I wouldn't want to if you weren't wearing one."

I began to cry this time. I knew this, in my heart, all along. But it was painful to hear out loud. "Of course you wouldn't. No one would. I'm repulsive, I'm sure that I'm not something you'd want to see when…well."

She covered her face in her hands. "I'm sorry Erik. I'm so sorry…"

"It isn't your fault, my dear."

I let the weight of this conversation soak in as I watched the clouds shift, blocking out the moon.

I had no clue where to go from here. My mind, normally full of plots and ideas, had reached a blank at long last.

I didn't know what to do.


	15. Crushed Down

I slept in as late as I could the next morning, clinging to my half consciousness and tiredly covering my eyes to block out the morning light, as well as the memories of the night before. Eventually both penetrated my defenses and I gave up and opened my eyes, stretching my long limbs and yawning. It was freezing. I drew the covers up to my chin, shivering. I stared blankly at the ceiling, wondering how late it was, and whether I'd managed to miss breakfast once more.

Suddenly, the door flew open without warning, bouncing off the wall. Nadir stood in the frame with wide, bright eyes, looking like a lunatic.

"Good God, Nadir, I'm not dressed yet!"

He ran to the window, ignoring me and giggling like a nauseating child, his usual intellectual air completely discarded. It was annoyingly endearing and utterly confusing.

"Nadir, what the hell is wrong with you?"

He tore open the curtain and pointed outside. A good two inches of snow had already covered the ground and was still falling, apparently exciting the native Persian to no end.

He reminded me of someone, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was pointing at the icicles excitedly when it hit me. He was behaving just like his deceased son, Reza. I had never seen this side of Nadir before. He was boundlessly enthusiastic, and his ideal, cliché optimism was almost contagious as he remarked how each snowflake was different, and how incredible it all was. I laughed at him.

"You weren't like this last year," I said, taking the opportunity to pull on my robe why he had his back turned.

He turned around and said simply,

"That's because I was too busy worrying about you."

I saw his smile falter when noticed I wasn't wearing my mask.

"Oh for Christ's sake, its right here," I growled.

I turned away and put it on as he quickly tried to deny his momentary revulsion. I waved my hand to suggest that it didn't matter, and he quickly changed the subject.

"There is more good news, Erik, I just found out-"

Madame Giry came stomping into the room at that exact moment, interrupting.

"Nadir, you've tracked in piles of snow with your boots! You're leaving a trail of it all over the house and soaking the carpets."

"Madame, if you don't mind, I was about to make an announcement."

She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, attempting to look cross and failing. Nadir's good mood was indeed contagious, as I had earlier suspected.

He cleared his throat ceremoniously and I sighed, the corner of my mouth twitching as I tried not to laugh at the absurd behavior of my two companions.

Nadir continued.

"Erik, the night Madame Giry came to my flat and introduced herself, we talked for a very long time about you. We both decided it would be best to go down to the cellars and attempt to collect some of your old belongings, perhaps only as a final gesture of respect. Neither of us dreamed we would have found you down there as well. I had tried to convince myself that you could have escaped, but deep down, I will not deny that I believed you to be dead. But back to that night; when we arrived, I found, as I suspected I would, that the mob had destroyed almost everything. It was very depressing and aggravating; to see your artwork reduced to burnt canvases, and your beautiful home filled with broken pieces of what had once been igneous devices and structures. I knew that the world would never see the beautiful things you had created, and that your genius was now tangibly lost forever, because of misunderstanding. I wept, and you know that I do not like to admit such things. But perhaps you will understand how relieved I was when I came across this."

He reached into a side bag slung on his shoulder that I hadn't noticed up until that moment. He pulled out the black, leather bound book that I had carried with me for a great portion of my life, and I felt a shiver when I saw its gold letter inscription gleam in the sunlight. It was my masterpiece, my "Don Juan Triumphant."

I didn't say anything, and allowed him to continue.

"I think it's a sign, Erik. You can't ignore it…"

"Nadir, please, I don't want it performed, I've told you this. I've always admired your persistence, but believe me when I tell you that this piece was not meant for human ears- its done enough damage..."

"It's too late; the tickets are almost sold out."

I stared dumbly, my mouth hanging open.

"What? You're joking."

"I know that you'll hate me for this, but I've started advertising for it. It's to be performed once more, this winter. "

I stared blankly at my two friends, searching for the words, completely unsure how to feel. . Madame Giry was smiling when she spoke.

"Not many people know that the man who is responsible for the Opera disaster also wrote the strange piece that was being performed that night. You may find this hard to believe, but I think the public was sad to never see it finished. Erik, you cannot deny that your music is brilliant. You captivated them. Everyone has been talking about it since the performance; in Paris there seems to be a sort of obsession with finding out who the composer is. It's amazing that no one has found out by now- of course, everyone involved vanished after the show; Madame Carlotta, most the chorus girls, Meg…well, no bother. The point is, my dear, the world wants your music."

I couldn't speak. For a second Nadir eyed me as if afraid I would attack. There was a lump in my throat that was growing, and threatening to make the tears I was holding back fall at any moment. I suddenly found myself embracing them both in a staggeringly tight hold, laughing happily.

Don Juan Triumphant was my life work, my soul. And it had been accepted at long last.

Christine stood nervously in the doorway, watching us. I jumped when I noticed her, and felt my eyes narrow.

"Don't worry, I'm wearing the mask, you can come in." I said icily, while Madame Giry gave me a reproving look.

Christine diverted her eyes. "You said you weren't mad…"

"Well I changed my mind."

Nadir sighed. "Come now, don't you think you're behaving a little childish?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps. What is it, Christine?"

"I'd like to talk to you about something…alone," she replied timidly.

The other two cleared out, leaving us in the cold room. I sighed, annoyed, but feeling that nothing she said could entirely ruin my mood right now. I was mistaken, of course.

"Well?"

She took a deep breath, and said rather quickly,

"Raoul has written to tell me that he doesn't believe he will return after the war."

Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke,

"He's getting our marriage annulled, and he wants me to try to find someone else. Of course, he doesn't know about the child. No one can, or else it will be obvious that the marriage was consummated…" Tears flowed down her cheek.

"He is a good man though, really, he wants me to be happy, he just…just doesn't want to be a part of this anymore."

"I don't blame him."

Still, even as I said this, I felt a warm rush of hope. What was she trying to say?

"The point is, he had given me permission to move on…to find someone else. To remarry."

I felt my heart pounding. "Yes? So?"

Had she conquered her repulsion, or, was she hoping I would recreate the mask I had worn before? Either way, I suddenly felt I wanted nothing more. We could be married! Oh this was foolish, but excitement filled me and I was having trouble hiding it. Luckily she was staring at the floor.

"I wanted to…to tell you that…that I plan to try to find someone else."

I stared at her blankly.

She nervously twisted her hair around her finger. "I don't want you to be jealous."

I laughed. Oh, this was too much. This was way, way too much.

"Get out."

She looked up at me with scared, surprised eyes.

"Get out!" I repeated with fury, and she scurried away, like a frightened mouse.


	16. The Chemical Embrace

Curse her and her nerve!

I sat on the edge of my bed, my face in my hands, weeping. What was I doing this for? She would never accept me. She would never love me. She had loved Raoul, and she would love another, perhaps. But she would never love me; she had made this clear, again and again.

But then an echo in my head destroyed my stubborn abandon. "Erik…I love you."

Damn this face!

I hit myself hard and dug my hands deep into my flesh, pulling my head down between my legs as I tugged at my skin, as if it would make a difference. I yelled at no one, I tore apart the sheets of my bed, clawing at anything in my path, like a deranged beast.

I was breaking down again. I paced and wept, knocking into my possessions, and taking a bottle of whiskey I had been saving down from the mantle, I drank myself into further delirium.

I was far too old to go on like this, far too young to be condemned to such a fate. I would have her. One way or another. I would make her accept me.

It was late, I could tell by the fact that the house was silent. The hallways were cold; my breath was visible as I crept to her chamber.

I opened the door a crack. She was sleeping peacefully, apparently unshaken by the day's events. I felt myself start to tremble with rage. My vision was blurred, but I could see that she was wearing a very thin night gown and that she had let her hair down for comfort.

I wanted her. I hated her, and yet I wanted her so bad it hurt, and that fueled my rage even more. Lust, anger, desperation and drunkenness were pulling at my barely stable mind, and I was about to break. I had been filled with disappointment to my limit, and far past it. I was threatening to explode.

I had never had a woman. I was close when I was young, with an unknowing gypsy girl, but then the mask had been removed. I was well past middle aged, and I remained a virgin. It was one of my greatest insecurities, and it was screaming in my head as she rolled over onto her back in her sleep, revealing the absolute definition of temptation in my alcohol blurred mind. The thin material tortured me as it delicately caressed her form, her perfect breasts beyond visible.

I intended to rape her.

It was a perfect solution, I decided. I hated her and wanted her, so what else was there?

Erik…

My conscious startled me. The soft voice in my brain sounded remarkably like Nadir…

Oh. So it was Nadir.

He took my arm with a firm grip and led me out of the room, closing the door behind us. I laughed and stumbled as he led me into his own chamber, imagining how sinister I must have looked standing over the sleeping child.

I fell onto his bed, giggling.

"You drunken fool…."

His voice was cold, his eyes full of disgust.

I laughed more,

"Funny, Daroga, I thought your culture encouraged such behavior towards women."

"I have grown since we first met, Erik. It was you who showed me many of the flaws in my own country. You, who said you could never hurt a woman! You are a hypocrite!"

I stopped laughing and got to my feet, suddenly furious, attempting to intimidate the Persian with my height. He stared back at me, infuriated as well.

"Do you have any idea what you were going to do?" He whispered.

"Yes."

"The Erik I know would never- I can't deal with you, one moment you're a perfect gentleman, the next you're the devil himself! The girl adores you Erik, she told us so, why would you do such a horrendous thing?"

I began to cry.

"She doesn't love me! She said she wanted another man, she said she wouldn't want me, she said my face was too repulsive!"

Nadir shook his head.

"You are paranoid, Erik, anyone can see she adores you!"

"She told me she intends to marry another! This afternoon, when she made you leave!"

Nadir sighed.

"Still….you cannot force yourself upon her, its not right!"

"No!" I screamed suddenly, not in response to Nadir but as a response to everything.

I punched his mirror, and the glass shattered all over the room.

"Erik!"

I was beyond reach.

"Nadir, you idiot! How dare you side with her? How dare you!"

I grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him in the air and slammed him into the wall.

"Erik, let him down!"

Madame Giry hit me square in the back of the head and I crumpled to the floor at last, weeping. I curled up in a ball and hugged my knees as they stood over me, bewildered.

There was silence for a long time.

I sat up and gained my composure to the best of my ability.

"I must leave your home now." I stood up and stumbled for the door.

Nadir threw his hands in the air. "Don't be stupid, Erik, it's just as much your home."

"Don't either of you dare forgive me this time!"

Madame Giry rushed over.

"Erik, please, relax, you're very, very drunk. Lie down dear, you aren't yourself at all."

I surrendered, and allowed myself to be led to my room. As I was helped into my bed, I made a vow to myself that this was the end. I had fallen so far, there was nowhere to go but back up. It would be a long, slow climb, but I had to. There was no other choice. Living this way hurt far too much.

I had to give up on Christine.


	17. Conquest is Assured

I devoted myself to my work; that was all I could think to do to keep my mind off Christine. I moved back to the Opera now that it was spring, to be closer to the epicenter of my passion. I stayed up nights at my pipe organ, and spent days watching the cast practice the newest production, my Don Juan Triumphant.

I tried not to torture myself with the knowledge that all the girls trying out were not anything compared to Christine; vocally or in any other area, really. I simply listened to them sing the parts from the dark shadows of the rafters, watching Madame Giry mark off their names on a long list, trying to remain optimistic. Later I would tell her who I wanted to perform, when I met her and Nadir for dinner.

On a particular day such as this, I was watching Madame Giry teach the new chorus girls/ ballerinas. I was hidden from view up among the high beams, my interest waning, when I overheard something that made me lean forward and strain my ears.

A young woman, defiantly no older than twenty, but certainly older than many of the others, was talking to some of the younger girls while their instructor had her back turned.

"My fiancé knows the man who wrote Don Juan Triumphant, you know. He says it's a fellow who is studying with him at the University. But keep that to yourselves, it's secret."

One younger girl scoffed at this. "You're a liar, Adrianna, no one knows who wrote it. For all we know it could have been a woman."

The girl, apparently Adrianna, was glaring at the younger girl.

"My fiancé will tell you…"

"Oh Adrianna, you don't have a fiancé, do you think we don't know that?"

Another one was looking over the sheet music when she replied to a comment made earlier.

"No, it was a man who wrote it."

Adrianna was still fuming, but managed to laugh.

"How can you tell?"

The younger girl blushed.

"I can tell, by the words….it was a man, and he was very…passionate."

Adrianna grabbed the paper.

"Let me see that…"

She read it over, the expression of her face changing quickly.

"My god, are we really singing this? Its so…"

"Beautiful," the blushing girl said, swooning.

"Not the word I was looking for exactly…more like…sinful…"

However, she too was blushing now.

Madame Giry had overheard them and came storming over.

"Girls, you are supposed to be practicing your dancing, now give me that! You can act like fools and faint away over men you've never met on your own time. Yes, yes Adrianna, I heard all of your foolishness. And I will assure you all that the true composer has not been discovered, and that he most certainly would not want you discussing any of this."

One of the younger girls was braver than most, I decided. Either that or she didn't know Madame Giry very well.

"Madame, do you know the composer?"

The whole group of chorus girls went silent at this. Madame Giry looked angry for a moment, but it disappeared when she spoke.

"You all need to worry less about the composer and focus more on learning to perform his piece. You don't want to disappoint him when he comes to see opening night, do you?"

"He's coming?"

Madame Giry looked up quickly and met my eyes, as if hoping I would somehow telepathically tell her if she should stop talking.

"Yes, I believe he will," she said rather softly.

"If you practice!" She then added sternly, and they all got to work at once.

I was a bit taken aback by the day's events as I made my way down the stone corridors of the labyrinth that led to my old home.

"Perhaps I am turning out to be a regular Don Juan…" I said to myself, shaking my head.

No, this was foolish. Any woman who fell in love with my music or writing would fall out of love with me the minute they saw my face. Besides, even if I could find an interested woman, how could any feelings I had for her compare to the ones I had for Christine? What was the chance that someone would both accept me and meet the high standards I had accidentally set? And she would have to be able to sing. These days that was rare.

It was useless to even think about. I didn't want to, I just wanted to be like other men, and date women almost for fun, having faith that one day I could settle down and be a husband. Instead searching for a mate had always seemed like a hopeless cause to me; and whenever I thought there was even the slightest chance for me with a woman I was attracted to, I latched on and wouldn't let go for anything.

I'd learned my lesson about all that. But still, the search seemed too serious, too desperate, and too unnatural.

If only I could leave the mask on. If only I could have my old one back, the one I had melted to my face like a fool. I suddenly found that I didn't care if it was shallow; I wanted to be with a woman, even if only physically. That was a world that was almost completely a mystery to me, and perhaps, if I could just once feel what it was like, I could find some sort of solace.

I wondered if I could make a mask once more, to look like the man I had been in the one that had caused the infection. Perhaps there was a safe way?

I could hold it on the same way I did with my other masks, simply shaping it perfectly to my face so that it stayed in place. I could even make it realistic, most likely. Still, the fear of it coming off would haunt me constantly. ..

I wanted to take that risk.

I wanted to be there the night of the performance, the night of my success. I wanted to reveal myself as the great composer, I wanted to hear the praise; I wanted to have the women who would no doubt come along with that attention.

More than anything, in the back of my mind, I knew I wanted Christine to have to picture me with other women, the way I had to envision her and her precious vicomte over and over in my mind. In reality I was kidding myself, believing that the rest of the world's praise would mean anything to me now. I wanted Christine to feel remorse. I wanted her to desperately want me again, and beg.

Yes…yes, I would make another mask. And once more, I would be triumphant!

I sat down at my organ, playing wild music that flowed from an unknown source, grinning like a horrible skull, reverting to my confusing, carefree and dangerous, vengeful and lustful emotions that I often displayed when too much stress had built up inside me, and had finally found an outlet.

It could be rage I was feeling; it could be glee. There would be no way an onlooker could tell. That's how I liked things; impossible to classify. I threw back my head, laughing manically.

Oh, how good it suddenly felt to be alive.


	18. The First Chord

By opening night, everything was perfect.

The mask stayed on quite well. The only way it would come off would be if someone ripped it. This seemed inconceivable.

I wore the best clothing I owned, black, velvety, and fitted in all the right places for my body. I slicked back my hair and wore black gloves in an attempt to hide my somewhat abnormal digits. I gave the mirror one last glance, smirked, and with a wave of my cloak turned and made my way through the passageways that would lead me back above ground.

The grand staircase was more crowded that I had seen it in years. Eager upper and middle class opera goers talked and laughed and anxiously awaited my show. I felt a flutter of guilt that I should be pleased to be admired by the aristocrats that I had for so long ridiculed and denounced. I felt a little like a hypocrite, and I despised hypocrites. But I tried not to care. This was my night.

Nadir and Madame Giry were standing off to the side of the crowd. Madame Giry smiled as I strode over, and then I saw the recognition fill her eyes and startle her, as she elbowed Nadir and gestured towards me.

I grinned.

"Hello. You two look splendid, I must say."

Nadir laughed.

"You picked a perfect time to stun us once again with your mask-making skills, Erik…the whole female population of this city is dying to meet the composer of tonight's piece. If so you desire, Paris is yours tonight, my friend."

I shrugged, trying to suppress my smirk. Madame Giry sighed.

"You both are-"

But what we both were I never found out, for at that moment, a squealing girl had decided to pull my arm. I turned around slowly and slightly menacingly, and saw the voluptuous blond who had bothered me the day I had been searching for an apartment.

"Monsieur," she said, grinning, in a sing-song sort of voice "you never did tell me your name!"

I looked helplessly at my friends. Madame Giry looked like she was biting her tongue in an effort to keep from bursting out in laughter.

I scratched my elbow awkwardly.

"Its Erik."

Her eyes glazed over, making her look even less intelligent.

"Erik…" she said, as if letting it simply pass her lips was pleasurable,

"Do you like the opera then, Erik?"

"One would gather I did, as I am here tonight," I said coldly.

She didn't take the hint.

"Some people who aren't fans of the opera at all are here tonight, though. After all, it's Don Juan Triumphant! Everyone's talking about it."

"I told you!" Nadir whispered loudly, poking me in the back.

I sighed. "Uh, Mademoiselle, I'd love to continue this uh…shall we say conversation? Yes, well, I'd love to talk, but I have business I must take care of."

She looked crushed.

"Could I meet you after the show, Erik?"

I looked at her for a moment. She was very pretty…

"Alright then. Meet me outside the doors right over there. Don't take long; I need to catch a carriage."

She nodded quickly and took off to no doubt tell her friends.

I smiled to myself, feeling wicked.

I felt a sharp pain suddenly as Madame Giry grabbed my hair. I almost fell to the floor as she ripped my head backward.

"Ow!"

"Erik, she's younger than you! You can't go meeting her after the show, she'll get ideas."

Nadir nodded.

"You're setting yourself up for trouble…you're almost fifty, Erik, you can't go around just…"

I put my arm on one of each of their shoulders.

"Please, both of you, relax. First of all, she's probably twenty five, at the youngest. Older than Christine…Second of all, I have no intention of doing anything too obscene."

Madame Giry sighed. "Well, alright. Let's go to our seats now, men."

Box five was the same as I remembered it. It was comfortable up there, and I felt remarkably calm as I waited for the opera to begin. In fact, Nadir was the one who looked stressed.

"If your opera's not a success tonight, this could be the end of our new found careers…"

I laughed, stretching out my legs and looking up at the new chandelier I had purchased earlier that year.

"Relax for once in your life, Daroga, please. Have more faith in the Angel of Music."

The crowd waited in hushed anticipation for the opera to begin once more. The lights dimmed, and a shiver ran through the room as the first chord was struck


	19. The Composer Revealed

I was disappointed.

The casting was as perfect as it could be, but the voice of the soprano playing Amnita did not have that beautiful, youthful purity that I had envisioned. This was an aggravating fact that taunted me all through the damn opera, making me secretly wish I had approached Christine about playing the part.

However, the crowd loved it. People got to their feet applauding, and I could feel the tension building all through the show; I could sense the approval, almost taste it in the air.

The two I was sitting between were with the crowd. Nadir patted me on the back continuously, taking breaks to clap enthusiastically, and Madame Giry wiped away tears, murmuring words I couldn't understand.

I felt wonderful as I made my way out of the box, when Nadir grabbed my arm, his eyes bright and excited again.

"Erik, um… I have another surprise for you…come this way, I'll explain."

I looked at him, confused, as he led me back behind the stage, and after he glanced around to check that no one was listening, he whispered excitedly, "I promised in the advertisements that I'd introduce the composer tonight, after the performance."

I felt slightly dizzy, but gained composure

"Nadir, may I ask why you find it so entertaining to run my life without discussing it with me first?"

He didn't hear me. He was pushing me out towards the stage.

"No, Daroga, I really don't think this is a good idea…."

I knew that if I wanted to, I could have fought him, but I let him force me on the stage, muttering tired protests. The crowd rose to their feet once more, cheering and applauding. Nadir was saying something, introducing me, no doubt, but I couldn't hear him. My head was swimming. Suddenly, I saw Christine's face in the crowd, for a moment wondering if I was imagining it. Our eyes met, and she looked scared. I turned away quickly, and tried my best to smile and look confident.

When I made my way out the doors, the girl in the pink dress wasn't the only woman waiting for me. Adrianna, the one I had watched rehearsing, along with many other members of the cast and opera goers stared in awe as I stepped out the double doors. They began to cheer, and I felt myself blush. This was absolutely ridiculous.

I smirked as I imagined the reaction that would have followed if Nadir had revealed the mysterious composer to be a disfigured older man. Disappointment at best. Open disgust, more than likely.

However, I caught a glimpse of Christine coming out the door at that moment, accompanied by a rather rich looking young man, quite uncanny to the vicomte himself, his arm around her delicate shoulders. My throat tightened, and I was suddenly determined to enjoy myself despite my misgivings. I strode forward and smiled at the girl in the pink dress who's name escaped me, offered her my gloved hand, (making her giggle like an idiot) and purposely strode right past Christine and into my carriage, waving goodbye to Nadir and Madame Giry through the crowd and avoiding even giving Miss Daeé the slightest impression that I had seen her or cared to.

However, I thought of hardly anything else most the night.

Even as I found my self engaged in entirely questionable acts that I certainly would not include later when I told Madame Giry and Nadir about my night in Paris, I still had trouble keeping my mind off Christine and that new aristocratic fool she let touch her.

"What's the matter with you?"

The girl whose name I still did not know and whose pink dress was now on the floor was gazing at me, her eyes full of confusion, as I avoided making eye contact,

"You're in a different world…you aren't even here, you haven't said a word. You seem so nervous. Those scars on your chest and back don't bother me, you know, I told you that. It makes me think you're like a war hero…"

She giggled. I didn't react.

She looked frustrated, as if expecting me to be the Don Juan she'd seen portrayed in my opera that night.

"Haven't you ever done this before?" she asked suddenly, fixing me with an expecting stare.

I muttered, lying, that of course I had.

"Well, is it me then?" She said, pouting her lip. I glanced around the lavish bedroom, then leaned back against the headboard. Closing my eyes, I told myself to get it together.

"You artists…" she said in my ear, slyly moving down to kiss my chest, "You always have you're head in the clouds…"

And what she proceeded to do next completely took my mind off Christine, and everything else for that matter….

It didn't last forever. I was alone in the dark soon, as she was asleep in no time. I stared at the ceiling, cursing myself. What had I done? I hated this girl. I hated everything she stood for, and knowing that I had just given myself to someone who would no doubt be repulsed by me if she knew who I was at all, I was sick with myself and my impulsive need for normalcy. I glared at her in the dark, she who had given herself to me without a second thought. I found it hard to believe that she even thought about anything at all. She had pursued me for the same reason girls pursued Raoul; it was a shallow desire, based entirely on appearance and status. I suddenly found it unfair for me to even be mad at Christine.

I was a hypocrite. I had fulfilled the ultimate betrayal of everything I had ever pretended to stand for.

For most my life I had denounced the shallow world of humans.

And now, because of a lie, I had attained a ranking in that world. I realized it was not what I wanted at all.

Tomorrow I would go home to the house on the lake and spend the day repenting and playing my music. I would never again wear this infernal mask.

I would be loved, yes, truly loved, for who I really was, or I would die alone.


	20. Silent Thoughts Along the Seine

It was a firm decision. There was no going back.

I slinked out of the young woman's room, unable to stay another moment. I was going home.

I didn't take a carriage. It would be a fairly long walk, in the snow, but I felt very much alive and up to it. Outside the snow was falling freely, and the whole city was dark, and soft and silent. I drew my cloak up tightly around my body. It had to be past midnight.

I stopped to watch the flakes disappear into the dark waters of the Seine. I rested my hands on the ledge of the wall in front of me. After a few second's thought, I removed the mask, and tossed it into the river. The wind caught it for a moment, but soon it fluttered down into the shadowy depths and disappeared. I felt a sad wave of relief.

I didn't so much regret what I had done. I felt that it was necessary, in a way; now that I knew how it would be to be normal, I could be content in my strange lifestyle. In fact, I had come to the conclusion that under the circumstances, I preferred it.

When I was very young I still loved and firmly believed in God. I had been raised that way by my mother, and had been faithful for a few years before I gave up. I had once believed that perhaps God had a purpose when he gave me my horrible face. Father Mansart once told me that God reserved the hardest lives for the people He believed were the strongest. Although I was defiantly not a religious man, the feeling I had when walking down the Parisian streets that night was very similar to the ones I had had as a child. I wasn't afraid anymore.

I touched my face, feeling the strange shape that had become so familiar to me. Such a strange, simple thing it was, a face…how could such small simple things define a man's life? How could one feel so caged within themselves?

I imagined how life would have been, if I had been a healthy, beautiful baby boy when I came out of my mother's womb. I knew my mother well, even if we had never been close in a natural sense. She would have adored me, allowing me to take the place of my dead father. She would have spoiled me, made me conceited and dependant, naïve and shallow. I would have grown up proper and never would have spent hours locked away in my attic room, discovering on my own the wonder in an organ and the sounds it could release. I would have never known hardship; I would have never traveled the world, or discovered all my skills, or learned to understand a wide array of people. I never would have wanted to die, or abused drugs, or killed innocent people, either. I never would have met Christine. I never would know what it is to truly loved, beyond mortal comprehension. I never would have been an Angel to anyone. I never would have truly lived.

I cried, but not out of grief. After a few minutes, my tears froze on my cheek. It was truly very cold out. I needed to hasten my pace.

In an hour or so I had finally reached the house on the lake, and as I made my way up the path to the door, my fingers and toes ached with what I prayed wasn't frostbite. It was rather foolish not to take a carriage. I hadn't a key on me, so I pounded franticly on the door. To my surprise, Madame Giry answered almost immediately.

"Madame, I'm surprised you're up this early."

She grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me in the door.

"I don't know where you've been all night Erik, but hurry up and change out of these frozen clothes and meet me in the far bedroom. Christine has gone into labor!"


	21. A Lullaby in the Early Hours

I didn't want to look at her.

I didn't want to help; I didn't want to be anywhere near.

I reluctantly stood in the corner of the bedroom, shivering in my robe and white mask that I had retrieved, relieved that Madame Giry allowed me to keep my distance and that the nurse had arrived at last. The scenes around me were stressed and blurred. I had never been present at a birth before; besides my own, I suppose. Christine writhed is pain and clutched at the sheets, and I couldn't watch. I felt like I might vomit as I turned away.

It was Raoul's baby. The fact was, I couldn't relive these emotions, now that I had been so close to freeing myself from them for good. Yet the image of their young, greedy bodies entwined kept creeping into my mind. It seemed like a useless battle. I closed my eyes, hoping they wouldn't ask for my assistance with the birth, and strangely enough, I began to drift off to sleep, right there against the wall.

The first piercing cry of the child roused me from my slumber. I came closer this time, and the nurse put the child in my arms, most likely assuming I was the father. I stood bewildered as I looked down at the bloody, wet thing wrapped in linen.

Madame Giry glanced up at me, her hand on Christine's forehead. "Do you want me to take him, dear?"

I was staring intently at the child. He had stopped screaming, and had turned his face towards me unflinchingly, as if searching for where the comforting touch was coming from. His eyes were a pale blue, like his mothers. I was relieved to see very little resemblance to either parent besides this. But those eyes…

Madame Giry touched my arm.

"Erik, what is it?"

I turned slowly, sadly, pausing before I spoke.

"The child is blind, madame."

Christine sat up, looking weak.

"No! Erik, give him to me!" she said hoarsely.

I raised my eyebrows, and then shrugged. Motherly instinct, no doubt. I handed her the child. She held him close to her breast and kissed his forehead. I felt an inappropriate surge of guilt, but it was overcome by pity. A life without sight!

Of course, loss of hearing would have been crueler, in my mind. But to never see the beauty of the world, to live in complete and total-

Darkness. The word hit me like a bullet, catching me off guard with emotion.

The nurse exited the room and Madame Giry soon followed, blowing out a candle and dimming the light as she left. She gave me a quick, worried look and then exited without a word.

The soft light had a magic effect; the mother and child looked so picturesque; exhausted and content. I wanted to curl up in the bed with them and share in the joy as well as the burden; I wanted it so bad it hurt. But he was not my child, and she was not my wife. Simply put, it was time for me to leave.

"Erik, wait!" Christine was looking slightly frantic when I turned to face her.

"Come here," she said, and I obeyed. I kneeled beside the bed and looked at the child.

"Is he really blind?" she whispered, looking deep into my eyes.

I swallowed. "Yes. I am certain. I've seen it before."

She looked like she was thinking very hard about whether or not to tell me something. I waited patiently. I always waited patiently for Christine.

"Did your mother…did she-?"

I looked away. "Did she wish I were truly dead like I looked? Did she refuse to feed me herself? Did she ignore me to the best of her ability?"

Christine reached out and touched my hand. I shivered as she spoke.

"I was going to ask if she really looked just like me, like you said."

"Yes," I said, moving my hand away.

She stared at where my hand had been for a moment and then began to sob suddenly, completely catching me off guard.

"What is it? Christine, what is it?"

She continued to cry, hiding behind her hands and ignoring my questions. I stayed kneeling by the bed, completely lost as to what I should do. The baby began to cry as well, and I felt that I might go insane if I didn't do something soon. I picked the baby up, due to some sort of strange natural impulse, and cradled him in my arms and held him against my thin chest.

"Don't cry, don't cry….its alright…I'm here."

He stopped crying, and turned his head, trying to sense where the voice was coming from again. How terrifying the world must have seemed to him; how completely black and dark and empty and vast it must have seemed to the blind child.

I suddenly didn't mind that he was Raoul's offspring; he was from his father, but not of him. To me the tiny creature was pure, like fresh snow, like a blank page, like clay waiting to be sculpted. In the right hands, he could be something beautiful. He could be my son.

I began to sing a lullaby. It began as an old gypsy song I'd learned long ago, but then it took on a life of its own. The effect my voice had on the infant was staggering. He seemed to lean in closer to me, closing his eyes. His small hand wrapped gently around my index finger, and I looked excitedly down at Christine, the look in my eyes no doubt exclaiming, "Did you see that?"

She had tears in her eyes still, but she was smiling. "Oh, don't stop singing, Erik…I've missed it so much." I sighed and handed the child back to her, and she stared at me for a few more minutes, that adoring look in her eyes that I had been trying so hard to shun from my memory.

"You confuse me so, Erik. I don't know how I feel. I feel like I should know, because it feels so strong. But I don't know. I haven't the slightest clue what this emotion could be."

"You seem so hesitant to think it could be love," I whispered, and then added tremulously,

"Why does it matter what my face looks like, Christine? How can you be so cruel and do this to me, leading me on and cutting me off so sharply like you do? I loved you Christine, I loved you more that the Vicomte or any man ever will…"

She looked deep into my eyes again, looking scared.

"You say 'loved' like it is a thing of the past…"

I ran my hands through my hair.

"Go to sleep Christine. I will sing to you, if you wish. You and your child both need rest."

I sang softly as she closed her eyes. Soon both of them were fast asleep, but I continued my song. As I watched in the dim light, I could not help but feel that Christine herself was nothing but a child. Her face was so young and innocent looking, and despite my better judgment, I ran a gentle finger across her pale cheek. I realized right then that I would take care of them both until I died. It wasn't so much a decision as a conscious recognition of an inevitable fact.

I watched over Christine and her child for several more hours, never straying from the room for a moment. I was like a sort of guardian angel, detached yet intensely devoted, and I only fell asleep just as the first rays of sunlight began to creep up the walls.


	22. The Child and his Erik

The next few years were quite possibly the happiest of my entire life. Due to little Cedric de Chagny, my life had at last acquired some meaning; for the first time in my life, I felt that someone needed me. Another human being depended upon me and loved me; it left me in awe.

During the first few months of his life, Christine would barely part with the child. She was a protective mother in every sense, and I respected this more than she'll ever know, perhaps. None of us, not even Madame Giry, were allowed to hold Cedric for the longest time after that first night. She was quite focused, quite determined, and when she'd leave the dinner table to go and put him to sleep, she would have a very serious look on her face. It was as if she were set on doing this one thing right; as if motherhood was her final chance to succeed in life. As a child who's talent disappointed her father, an opera singer who gave up on her career too soon, a wife who was disloyal to her husband in her heart, and the fearful, failed companion to her Angel of Music, it was quite understandable why she would be so determined not to ruin this new relationship of mother and child. I worried for her and her exhausted state, but kept my distance.

At night however, I was with the child constantly. Though Nadir, Madame Giry and Christine remained oblivious, I was the sole reason that the child did not cry at night. When his mother was fast asleep, I would take the child in my arms and sing him soft lullabies that I wrote just for him, and play my violin by his cradle while he stayed very still and listened intently. I told him stories through song, legends and memories alike, and though he couldn't understand, my voice seemed to soothe him, and this therefor soothed me. It was I who first made him smile.

By his first birthday Christine has given in and allowed us to see more of Cedric. Madame Giry, Nadir and I would sit on the floor with him, allowing him to crawl back and forth between us, and Christine would lie on the sofa, smiling in a tired sort of way. She seemed to mature to me over those months. The responsibility of caring for another human seemed to change something in her, or at least, open her eyes a bit. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but she seemed less and less like a girl whenever I saw her. Soon the clothing that had once seemed awkward looked stunning on her. If only she had worn those dresses for me, instead of for gentlemen callers that started to reappear around Cedric's second birthday, I would be certain that it was a different girl that I was beholding.

The child himself was so intelligent, so gifted, that I was amazed.

He was stringing together coherent sentences before he was two, and would tell me the strangest stories and laugh when I'd seem confused. We'd run around the house playing the strangest games; I created for him a sort of alternative universe, in which both of our imaginations ran wild, and I filled his young mind with music, and magic, and adventure. Everyday our make believe world brought us closer and closer together, and everyday I began to feel more and more like he was my son.

He learned quickly, and refused to hardly acknowledge his inability to see. His thirst for knowledge seemed endless, and he would beg me to read to him, or tell him about distant lands, or explain how doorbells work.

He, like myself, was also drawn to music, and would sit with me at the piano without me asking him to, listening intently and leaning his head against me. It was one day, when he was almost three, that we were sitting at the piano when he touched my arm, making me jump.

"Can I play?"

He grinned, and his eyes, unknowingly looked to the left of me.

I touched his face gently with my gloved hand and directed him to where I was, staring deeply into the glazed pale blue orbs that were his eyes. He continued to smile.

I pet his hair affectionately. "Of course you can. Here, sit on my lap. Let me show you where to put your hands."

He was very creative. He soon instructed me to play three bass notes over and over, while he repeatedly played a strange melody, pressing his index fingers to one key at a time. It didn't sound half-bad.

He clapped his hand with glee, and buried himself in my chest, hugging me. It was at this very moment that I sensed Christine's presence behind us.

"Are you my father?" Cedric asked, his voice muffled by my ruffled shirt he was pressing his face against.

I glanced up at Christine. Her face was white.

I sighed, and smiled sadly. "No, Cedric. I am only Erik."

He was biting my shirt like a deranged puppy dog, and giggling as I spoke.

"Hey!"

I picked him up and ruffled his hair, and his high pitched young laughter was beautiful. I bit his shirt right back, and shook it in my mouth, making growling noises like a dog, and he was laughing so hard now that he could barely breathe. I laughed as well, as did Christine, staring at us both as if we were insane.

Cedric blindly felt for my face, and put a small hand on my cheek. He scowled, no doubt because it was scratchy from neglect of shaving on my part, but he was smiling again in no time. His hand still in place, he said,

"Are you my Erik then?"

I laughed, but he waited patiently for the answer.

"Are you my Erik?"

What a peculiar child he was…I was certain of the answer though, even if it was a strange question.

"Yes. I am your Erik."

He smiled, as if relieved. Christine cleared her throat.

"Cedric, you need to take a nap, darling."

"No!" He clung to me with a curiously tight hold, tears forming in his lifeless eyes, "No, I want to stay with my Erik!"

She sighed, her face going whiter still. "No, you need rest, dear…"

He was full out crying now. "I hate you! You can't take me!"

I gripped his arm and gave him a light shake.

"Cedric, don't talk like that. Your mother loves you and you love her. Now, go to rest for a little bit, and we'll play again when you wake up. If you don't sleep, I won't teach you anything more on the piano."

He nodded obediently and followed Christine out of the room.

I went back to playing, and was deeply involved in a piece by Bach when I heard Christine return. She was obviously crying, and came over to collapse into my arms. The image of the grown woman shattered like a fragile champagne glass as she sobbed into my shoulder.

"He hates me, Erik…he loves you, but he hates me…"

I patted her hair awkwardly.

"Oh Christine, he didn't mean that…"

She looked up at me with teary eyes, suddenly wide.

"But in a sense he does…Erik, how do you do it? Everyone loves you so…you have such charm, such ability…I feel so insignificant. How can I expect him to love me when he has you? I'm so shallow and selfish, and you're…you."

I laughed. "Everyone loves me? You must be mistaken, my dear."

"Madame Giry does…and Nadir, and now Cedric as well."

It was amazing how normal this felt. How much I suddenly felt like a young husband reassuring my wife, like a normal family. Perhaps that's why the words accidentally slipped from my mouth.

"Christine, you are his mother. Believe me, he loves you…and I love you too."

She kissed the non-deformed side of my face and whispered in my ear, "Oh but you shouldn't, Erik…you shouldn't…"

It was too late to take it back. The realization I refused to even consciously recognize revealed itself despite my efforts. I was not any closer to being over this fickle girl than I had been three years ago.


	23. The Letter

I could have lived forever with the way things were at the house on the lake. Cedric had somehow completed my existence, somehow tied everything together, making my strange group of companions seem like a family. The house was full of laughter and cooking and music. Nadir and Madame Giry were the happiest I'd ever seen them, in their sort of grandparent roles. Christine and I grew close again, and although we did not share a bed or kiss on the mouth, I felt more and more like she was my wife with each passing day.

Christmas time was an experience like no other. For the first time in my life, I had a family to share it with, and I worked night and day creating them the perfect gifts. I was beginning to grow quite soft, to be honest, and I found that from the holidays on, I laughed much more often then I cried, and spent more time in the downstairs quarters than I did cooped up in my sleeping chamber.

I should have been weary, I should have known that the past was doomed to repeat itself, and I would once again have to face the consequences of allowing myself to become attached to others. I should have seen the patterns and known that once again, the only comfort I had would be ripped way from me. But for several years I did not once worry or question what I had been blessed with, and perhaps, I did not truly appreciate it until the day I found out I must say good bye.

Cedric was now almost six years old, and didn't usually throw tantrums like he once did. That was why, one morning as I was just beginning to wake, I was somewhat concerned when I heard his teary protests being shouted from downstairs. I slipped into my bathrobe and hurried down the stairs, barefooted, not bothering to grab my mask.

Madame Giry, Nadir, Christine and Cedric were all sitting in the living room. Or rather, Cedric was at his feet, his face red from yelling and streaked with tears. His dark hair looked tousled and his small body was shaking. As I am very light on my feet, his blindness prevented him from knowing I was in the room. The others all looked up at me, and I was startled to see that the two women looked as if they were trying not to cry as well.

Cedric had apparently hadn't given up on yelling yet. With his next sentences, the cause of whole scene suddenly came into my focus.

"I don't want a father! I already have one! I don't want one! I have Erik!"

With this final shout, his fists fell to his side and his head drooped. I felt my face drain of color.

"What has happened?"

Hearing my voice, he ran towards the sound, stumbled, and hugged my leg. Christine buried her face in her hands.

"I don't know what to do? What can I do?"

Madame Giry sighed, and handed me a letter that was lying on the coffee table.

I read it nervously, trying to stay calm

Dearest Christine,

I sent this to Monsieur Bastian, the gentlemen who I had come check on you the night I left. I trusted he'd know where to find you. I hope you get this soon enough.

Where do I begin? There is so much I want to say to you, so much I'm afraid you won't want to hear. Most importantly, I must tell you some terrible and yet fortunate news; I have been injured, badly, in battle. The doctor believes that I may be able to walk again, but nothing is for sure. The fortunate part is that I am coming home now.

Christine, I have done so much thinking while I've been in this war, and I think that I have made the most terrible mistake of my life. I know that I should have been more understanding about everything that happened; and I know it isn't your fault, that Erik has some kind of hypnotic power over you; I've seen it happen time and again. What I'm trying to say, my darling, is that I just could annul our marriage. I love you far too much, Little Lotte, and I want to try again, now that I am coming home, and the Phantom is out of our lives for good. I want to try to start where we left off.

I've afraid of what you will say to this. But I needed to take the risk. By the time you receive this letter, I will most likely almost be home. If you love me still, return to our home and greet me. I swear to you, you will not regret it. This time will be perfect, my love.

Your husband,

Raoul

I looked up at Christine when I finished.

"You have to tell him about the child. No matter what you decide, he has the right to know."

"But Erik, then you'll never see him again."

I closed my eyes and sighed.

"Let me think this through."

I then turned to my friends on the other couch.

"No matter what happens here, one thing is certain. I must flee France before the Vicomte returns. No doubt he will not rest unless he knows I am behind bars."

"We're coming with you," Nadir said, getting to his feet. Madame Giry nodded.

"I'm coming too!" shouted Cedric, and I remembered that he was still hugging my legs.

I bent down beside him and took him in my arms. He cried into my shoulder.

"You can't go…I don't want him for a father. You can't go."

I began to cry as well, but tried my best to hide it in my voice.

"Don't you worry, mon enfant doué … I'll think of something. I always think of something..."


	24. Cedric Abandoned

**From the Journal of Cedric De Changy**

I have very little recall of my childhood. Its hard to have memories when you have been blind your entire life, for there are no images in your mind, no colors or faces to recall. Its so easy to forget the sound of someone's voice, so easy to forget the way it felt to have someone's arm around you- thus everything I can recall has become a sort of blur of emotions. However, there is one clear distinction in my mind, and that is how life felt before the night Erik left, and the way it felt afterwards.

He didn't say goodbye. I couldn't have been any older than six, but I can still remember the morning I woke up and he was gone. Even then my mother wouldn't let me talk about it. When I stopped crying and allowed her to speak, she told me it was for the best, and that I would have a real father now to love me. She said that I'd soon forget all about Erik.

But I didn't.

My father was overwhelmed even before he met me. The war had left him lame and in a wheel chair, and his helplessness was killing him inside. He was young, and he didn't know how to handle a child in my condition. My blindness made me frustrated, and without Erik's calm understanding protection, I grew wild and angry and lashed out at anyone who tried to reform me. I wouldn't let my parents hold me or console me. I avoided them both, angry at them and the world, and became lost deep within myself.

I learned quickly not to mention Erik. The one time I did, my mother insisted that I didn't know what I was talking about and that I had never met anyone named Erik. My father grew angry, and my mother cried for days. I didn't dare bring him up again; I was a bad child, but not to the point where I enjoyed to see others in pain.

I tried to hide my guilt, but I couldn't. I felt like I was some sort of ghost of the past, haunting my parents marriage. I didn't even fight when they took away my piano. I resented them with every inch of my heart, but I soon learned to keep it bottled inside.

I didn't' get along with my peers either. I was kicked out of all the schools my father sent me away to for fighting with other students. I made the children fear me so that they would push me around and steal my things, taking advantage of my handicap. It wasn't my fault entirely; I had to do something, and behaving like a violent animal was my only defense; acting like a human never got me any respect. I was treated like I was stupid by my teachers and was put in slower classes, despite the fact that I could do the work better than most the other students.

As I grew, I began to believe the entire world was against me. Sometimes I talked to my mother, only because I knew she knew the truth. I hoped that if I was good, she would give me some hint as to whom Erik had been, or what had become of him. She never did. And when she died suddenly in her sleep on the same night as my thirteenth birthday, I was left alone and clueless.

After my mother was gone, any ties that had been between my father and I were destroyed. He had screamed at me the night of her death. Her last words had been to my father: "Tell Cedric the truth about Erik." Soon after, I had asked him to please tell me, and he was furious. He claimed that it was all I cared about, and that my true family meant nothing to me. He said he wished that I wasn't his son, and that I had done nothing but make his and my mother's life miserable. I was hurt beyond words, and he was more than happy to be left alone. So we stopped speaking.

The night before the funeral, I cried alone in my room. I didn't see the point in living anymore; I had no family, no friends, no education or skills or any place in life. I was defected, worthless, broken, and I had done nothing but make other people's lives miserable. I wanted to die, and I was daring myself to just jump out the window of the mansion and end it all.

I was seriously considering this when I heard voices downstairs. My curiosity got the better of me, and I opened my door and crept down the hall. I had memorized the amount of steps it would take to get to different places in the house, and I counted in my head as I reached the top on the stairs, and bent down by the top banister to listen to the activity downstairs.

My father was speaking to people at the front door. God, how I wished I wasn't blind! I carefully made my way down the stairs, trying to be as silent as I could. The man speaking sounded like he had an accent of some sort…I wasn't sure what it was. Maybe Arabic.

I couldn't tell what was being said- everyone seemed to be speaking in hushed tones. There was a woman's voice, and the sound of my father, and then I heard another voice, slightly softer and clearer in frequency then the other men's. And my heart leapt.

I _could _remember him! I couldn't until I heard his voice, but now as I strained to listen, I was certain it was Erik! It was as if the memory of his voice was a passage to thousands of other memories. I suddenly could remember the smell of his jacket I used to bury my face in, and the way he would laugh and ruffle my hair. I remembered the songs he used to play for me, and the feeling of his bony fingers as they guided my tiny ones on the ivory keys of the old piano. I felt tears in my eyes, and I realized suddenly that I didn't want to die.

I hurried down the stairs, no longer bothering to hide that I was listening. I forgot to count my steps in my excitement, and when I reached the last step I fell hard on my chest, knocking my wind out of myself.

I felt someone help me to a sitting position on the steps, and I waited a few moments and soon I could breathe again.

The first words out of my mouth were, "Erik?"


	25. Atop the Veranda

_Dearest Cedric,_

_I've wanted to write to you many times over the past seven years, but I thought it best that I left you alone, and allowed you to adjust to your new life. This may seem strange, my sudden need to talk to you, but it seemed right. I hope you aren't too upset with me, and perhaps, my greater fear is that you have forgotten me. However, I'm going to continue on assuming that you can remember me, perhaps because I need to believe that. _

_When I heard the news that your mother had died I was sitting at a café in a small town in the south of Italy. I won't say exactly where, out of fear that this letter may fall into, shall we say, the wrong hands. _

I was sitting on the veranda of our new house, the evening ocean breeze rustling in my hair as I reread the letter I had been writing to Cedric. When I reached this point, I suddenly crumpled it up, my eyes filling with tears. Why was I bothering? The child had no doubt changed, and would not even remember who I was. And even if he did, he wouldn't want to hear from me…not now. It had been too long..

I buried my face in my hands and let the crumpled paper fall to my feet. I felt a soft hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see Madame Giry standing beside me. I relaxed a little.

"Are you still trying to write to Cedric?" She asked quietly, as I wiped away my tears viciously.

"I don't know…has it really been seven years? How old am I?"

"I don't know for sure, Erik."

"How old are you?"

"Forty-six."

"How old is Nadir?"

"Fifty-three."

"Then how old must Cedric be?"

She hesitated. "Around thirteen, I'd imagine."

I sighed and sat back.

"She's dead….I still can't take it in, I can't…make it permanent. I never thought that she would be dead while I was still alive. I didn't even consider the idea. I can't even comprehend how to…comprehend it."

I laughed sadly, and looked up at her incredulously.

She sighed.

"You've been drinking, haven't you?"

I didn't respond. I stared off at the ocean, attempting to turn things over in my alcohol blurred mind.

"I don't know how I feel…for a while, while we were out here these past years, I thought I'd stopped loving her. But I think…I think a part of me will always love her. And its not just a small part either, its my whole past, my whole…real self. And if she's gone, I…I must be gone too. Does that make sense?"

She sat down next to me and wrapped her arms around me, catching me off my guard the way affection always does. I felt myself collapse in grief.

"Erik, you aren't gone. You're here. And we're here. We've been through a lot together, and you'll always have us. You'll always be real to us."

Nadir came out onto the veranda and sat in the chair next to mine. He smiled at me gently, and said, "I'd join you two, but the chair would most likely break…"

I smiled through my tears.

"I sometimes forget how much you two mean to me. Its always been you two…since the beginning. I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for you."

Nadir joined us on the chair anyway. The sun had set, and the stars had come out, and I watched him gaze at them.

"Erik…I've been covering for you…but you know what you have to do. What you should have done from the start."

I swallowed hard, and like a child, I cuddled up close to Madame Giry, who seemed confused.

"What are you talking about, Nadir?"

He didn't answer her right away, so I spoke up.

"We need to go back to France. I need to tell Cedric something very important."


	26. Cedric Reunited

**Cedric's Journal, cont.**

My father sighed loudly at my immediate recognition of Erik's voice.

"Well, I guess that settles it, he knows its you. Take him. He never was my son, in fact, some days I am almost certain that he really_ isn't_ my son and that Christine must have…"

He trailed off.

Erik spoke once more.

"I have assured you several times, Monsieur, that your wife and I never engaged in any such thing as what you are implying. But if it makes you feel better about the whole situation, you may choose not to believe me."

I felt dizzy and confused. Did my father say what I think he said?

"I'm…I'm leaving with you?"

I felt his hand on mine. I shivered. He felt very cold.

"Do you really remember me, Cedric?" He sounded like he was shocked.

"Yes, of course I remember you! You…" I paused, realizing this would sound very childish, but something in my memory was telling me it was the right thing to say if I wished to assure him.

"You're my Erik."

The woman and man with the accent laughed softly.

I heard my father's wheel chair wheel over, and he placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry Cedric. I'm sorry you were born into this mess, it wasn't fair to you. And…well, I had your mother's love in the end. And perhaps…perhaps this is only fair. The Phan- uh…._Erik_. Erik is your father now. "

And I then he wheeled away without saying another word. I could feel his relief in letting me go, and I was past the time in my life when his rejection could hurt me.

There was a few moments silence, and then I spoke.

"Where will we go?"

Erik laughed. It was a pure laugh, a kind one.

"Oh, Ced, the question is, where _won't_ we go? Tell me, son, do you like to travel?"

I nodded vigorously, and then stopped.

"Well, actually, I've never left Paris…"

The woman spoke next

"Would you like to come see the world with us, Cedric?"

Her voice was kind too…and I wondered if that was what it felt like for most children when their mothers addressed them. But I heard her gasp suddenly, realizing her mistake before I even had. She had asked a blind boy if he wanted to_ see _the world.

I tried to convey wordlessly that I hadn't taken offense, but I sensed that something more was going on. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath.

Erik leaned in closer to me.

"Cedric, I've been keeping something from you…and if I tell you, I need you to realize it may change the way you perceive me. In several ways…"

I nodded, feeling a bit uneasy. "What is it?" I whispered.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, then continued on.

"I studied many rare medicines and medical procedures when I was younger. I've met many amazing doctors that the Western world is oblivious to. Nadir, the man standing behind me, also had a son who was blind, and although not from birth like you, it was very similar case. Nadir allowed me to perform an autopsy after his son passed away, which was very generous, since his culture frowns on such things. I convinced him that it would perhaps allow me to aid another child one day, and he reluctantly gave in. From the autopsy, I learned much about the functions of the eye, and much about how one would perhaps go about curing blindness. The point is, ever since you were born, I have been fairly certain, that if I had the right help and medicine, and a sufficient amount of time, I could cure you."

His story was very long and nervous sounding, and after he finished, I sat in awe for a few moments.

"You mean I could _see_?"

"Yes, that would have been a much shorter way of saying it, I suppose…."

I felt my excitement falter for a moment. I suddenly felt confused, and was teetering on the edge of anger.

"Erik, why didn't you tell my mother this right away? Why didn't you do something about it sooner?"

No one spoke. Aggravated, I broke through the silence,

"Erik-!"

He took my hands in his, cutting me off, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Ever since I was young, he had the calm ability to stop my tantrums before they even started. And why on Earth was he so cold to the touch?

I began to cry, and I wanted to pull away. I had never felt afraid of him, but something didn't seem right.

"Erik, what is it?" I said quietly, trying to hold back my sobs.

"If I show you, please Cedric, don't scream…I think it'd kill me."

I was shaking all over, but I managed to nod.

"Madame, hold this," I heard him say as one of his hands left mine for a moment.

"Cedric…I love you. And if this changes your decision about wanting to go with us, I will still love you and I will not blame you at all."

I felt a little braver. All my life I had waited to hear someone say they loved me. My mother said it sometimes, but it was usually in an expectant tone, as if demanding to hear me say it to her and my father in response. Or it was an apologetic plea, begging me to come to her, or act normal for awhile. I didn't believe in the phrase; I found it cliché and overused. But when I heard Erik say it, it was...different. I could _feel _the words. I had never heard words said with such pure intentions.

I felt him raise my hand up to his face and place it against his left cheek. It was fairly smooth, with a tiny bit of stubble.

"That's the face I was meant to have, Cedric," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Curiously, I lifted my hand on my own and placed it on the right side of his face, feeling for the first time the twisted scar tissue and the cold, almost corpse-like flesh that was the other side of his visage. I felt the deep gash that served as half his nose, and the hollow cheek that felt sickeningly like a skull with something thin and raw stretched over it. "The dark side of the moon..." I thought absently. I could feel his whole body twitching, yearning to pull away due to some instinct that he had learned from life experience after life experience. But he stayed put. And I didn't not flinch.

I pulled away after a few moments and sat in silence on the stairs, thinking about what this must have meant for Erik. Then I said,

"It isn't too late?"

Erik sounded very weak and drained, but knew what I was referring to.

"No, I am still fairly confident I can fix your eyes. Soon, if you desire."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell him I wasn't upset with him at all. Perhaps I was being too forgiving, but something told me he needed _someone_ to be. That's what love is, I guess. Forgiveness.

I wanted to tell him I understood why he didn't tell me sooner, and that I wasn't bothered by his face. I wanted to say all sorts of things, but I couldn't put them to words. Instead I just hugged him, and I believe I caught him completely off guard.

I was so glad I finally had him back, and that was all that mattered.


	27. Erik Contemplates

I didn't show it, but I was shocked at the Vicomte's lack of resistance to my taking his son. In fact, when we first spoke, not only did he agree to allow me to take the boy with me so that I could cure him, he basically suggested that I adopt him as well! I knew that Cedric and Raoul did not come off as exactly compatible, but for the Vicomte to give up his son to a man he knew as a murderer? This seemed strange to me. I didn't tell Cedric this, but I didn't trust this strange lucky twist, and was in a hurry to leave France before Raoul came to his senses…

Despite my instincts, I accepted the Vicomte's invitation to stay the night at the mansion. In all honesty, we had nowhere else to stay, and if we were to attend Christine's funeral, we would have to stay at least until tomorrow afternoon.

After I tucked Cedric in and made sure he was alright for the night, I went to bed.The guest room was as I'd remembered it, barely any different than that first night I had awoke and heard the sound of the piano playing downstairs. Christine had believed me to be dead that night. Ironically, I now_ knew_ she was. I sat on the edge of the bed and played with the hem of the sheets, thinking.

I was relieved to have Cedric back in my life. He was so important to me, and the love I felt for him had changed me for the good, more than the feelings I had felt for Christine ever did. For Cedric, I had become a new man, a gentler, more stable version of my old self. But still, I felt like there was an empty void in my life. I still longed to be loved by a woman..

Of course, Madame Giry and Nadir would help me raise Cedric. I could depend on them to always be there when I needed them. But now that Christine was gone, I doubted I would be able to find romantic love. A part of me still clung to the idea that one day, some how, somewhere, she and I would be together. I had to keep reminding myself that was impossible now.

Or maybe it wasn't Christine that I had been in love with, but the idea of love. It seemed terrible to think such things, knowing that her body was lying somewhere in this house, waiting to be buried. But I could stop the thoughts from flowing.

Maybe I hadn't been in love with her. Well, of course, I had been. But maybe I wasn't anymore.

Strange.

I hadn't missed her after we left for Rome. In fact, I had hardly thought of her; only of Cedric. And it seemed now that I had grieved her passing, I once more felt that I didn't miss her.

I lied back for a moment, resting my head against the pillows. What a terrible thing it is, knowing you can't feel completely whole without a woman to love. No matter how much I had tried to tell myself it wasn't true over the years, I knew it was something programmed in me, something that I couldn't erase; until I had someone to share my life with, someone to sleep beside me and someone for me to kiss and hold and cry to, I would always feel alone. I needed someone to make music for once more…

I had loved Christine. Yes, I had, whether it was justified or not.

I let the tears fall. There was no use trying to be a man about things anymore. No one was expecting me to be.

As I drifted into sleep, the strangest thoughts occurred to me. I don't recall what they were exactly, but they were comforting. Perhaps my brain was just exhausted with sorrow, and it had to think something new, even if it was odd. No matter the reason, I slept well that night. And when I woke up, I was prepared to face the day. Little did I know what I was in for.


End file.
